


Good Old Fashioned Fairytale

by goingbadly



Category: Ala ad-Din | Aladdin (Fairy Tale), Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock/Aladdin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Cloud Atlas ish if you know - nevermind, M/M, Multiple Alternate Universes, Mutation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty doesn't realize that one of the Holmes brothers was born with a very rare genetic power that allows him to 'quantum leap' other people. With the touch of his fingers, Mycroft Holmes can send his enemies spiraling through alternate universes. While use of the genetic ability is been strictly forbidden, Mycroft Holmes considers Sherlock's safety above that law. When Jim threatens Sherlock, Mycroft has no choice. Jim wakes up as a princess in a fairy tale. Mi Tzu-hsia, as it happens. The next time it's a slave girl. A mermaid. A fucking /sparrow./ Now he and his Prince Charming have to find their way home... if only to prove Sebastian isn't charming, and Jim is /not/ a damsel in distress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mi Tzu-hsia and the Lord of Wei

“That’s illegal.”

Mycroft Holmes arches a single, flawless eyebrow. “I’m surprised to hear that from _you_ , James.”

Jim Moriarty grits his teeth. There are several hundred thousand separate ways to sever a spine, and he’s run through half in his head already. This conversation isn’t just painful; it’s worse than the torture that came before it.

“ _Sorry,_ ” Jim sings, to cover his frustrations. He shrugs reflexively, even though the motion doesn't do much more than tug at his bonds. “It just sort of popped out. Didn’t know the Queen went _in_ for that kind of thing.”

“No one does, officially.” Mycroft stretches his long, pale fingers out in front of him. The very tips, under the nails, are lit with an inner light; bioluminescence, originating in the electrical impulses of his nerves.

There had been an attempt to scientifically explain Aberrants in the 1950s. It didn’t amount to much. Jim himself had looked into it; secured all the classified files thanks to three sleepless nights of programming, and chased that pale pink light for months before he got bored. He tried a dozen chemical structures, computer simulations, and finally human experimentation when all else failed. (For the record – lighting people’s fingers on fire did _not_ confer the mutant abilities of Aberrants, although it was extremely funny.) Jim found nothing. He wasn’t used to failure, but there you were. Nobody knew how, or why, the Aberrants could do what they did. _Could_ do - past tense - because even for the King of the Shadows surviving Aberrants were only whispers. Rumours of terrorist hold-outs. Soviets. Muslims.

_And, apparently, after all that - Mycroft Holmes._

_Well, well._

“Gotta admit, I’m a tad bit curious why you weren’t _Culled._ ” Jim grins, showing all of his teeth. “If I’d _known_ there was a real live Aberrant around I wouldn’t have even _bothered_ with Sherlock _._ ”

Mycroft purses his lips and twitches the tips of his fingers. The light brightens, then goes softly out. “I have several talents the British government finds useful.”

“How understated of you.”

“I assume you appreciate the nature of the threat, then?”

Mycroft’s fingers start to glow again. Jim stares at them, fascinated. It isn’t an all-at-once light, like a switch; it flickers, and dances, and increases in hesitant footsteps so that he’s not sure the light is there at all until it’s glowing bright enough to reflect off Mycroft’s cufflinks.

Moriarty wants desperately to throw himself onto Mycroft’s hands. He feels the pop of his tendons against the restraints and relaxes backwards with an effort. There’s already deep bruising on his upper arms from trying to force his shoulders forward; the pain is like a warning bell in the back of his mind. Faint and unimportant.

“Different universes…” Jim breathes.

Mycroft inclines his head. “If you continue to pursue your… game… with my brother, I will be forced to take steps.”

_One brush of your fingers and – snap! Quantum leap._

_The most inhumane of acts, banned under every war treaty ever recorded, banned since the days of Charlemagne, impossible, inexplicable –_

Oh, god. Jim wants it like a fire in his heart. He can feel the pressure of the blood against his skull. Every nerve in him is jumping, sparking, trying to imitate the light in Mycroft’s fingers. There’s a deep hunger in his stomach – or maybe it’s his chest? His thoughts fracture under the push of it, and Jim wheels dizzily on the edge of throwing his Empire to the wind and saying, _oh, pretty, pretty please._ The air of the room is intolerable. Jim’s lips are dry.

Three men have come back from an Aberrant's 'Sending,' in all of human history. Only three. 1884. 1918. 1969. All of them mad, and all of them dead within a month. Jim knows the history, backwards and forth. Those stories sit in the looming mansion of his mind, under shrouds like old furniture. Always present, even if he doesn’t look directly at them. Shrouded in taunting mystery.

_Ghost stories aren’t enough. What is it **like?** Being involuntarily sent to another reality. _

_Does it hurt? Does it **tingle?**_

Jim hisses through his teeth, twisting his head to shake out his thoughts. “Is that a promise?” he teases, stalling for time.

Mycroft Holmes leans back, folding those dangerous hands into his lap like there’s nothing remarkable at all about them. Jim wants to keen, seeing them disappear from view.

_Should I? Shouldn’t I?_

“Do I have your word you’ll give up your exercise in baiting my brother?” Mycroft asks, politely inquisitive.

Jim mulls it over, running his tongue across the front of his teeth. _Do I? Don’t I?_ It's no real choice. This reality is boring. Sherlock is boring. _Winning_ is boring. _An Aberrant, now, **that…** that is interesting.  
_

Jim smiles, broad and carefree. His heart skips a beat in excitement, then starts to stutter faster; filling his chest with warm, solid hope. “No,” he says, “No, Mycroft Holmes, _so_ sorry, you do _not._ ”

Mycroft frowns, shutting his eyes. He’s clearly steeling himself. Jim feels a lurch of sickening fear clutch at his anticipation – _no, not now, don’t back out on me don’t you dare_ – but when he opens his mouth to goad Mycroft further, he’s cut off by a quick motion forward. Mycroft grabs Jim’s head firmly with the very tips of his glowing fingertips. Electricity sparks from one side of Jim’s head clean through to the other, bisecting his frontal lobe.

Everything goes white and splotchy. Jim thinks he giggles, but he can’t be sure – reality is twisting, distorting, going bulbous and thin all over like a convex mirror. The light in Mycroft’s fingers drills directly into the visual cortex of Jim’s brain, and somewhere in his cerebrum something snaps.

Jim is paralyzed. Jim is transfixed, held in place like a specimen between ten shards of blinding glass. Mycroft Holmes frowns, slightly, and involuntary movement in Jim’s body shuts off; there’s a screaming pain to it, feeling his eyelids pinned wide open, feeling his heart stop, feeling his lungs cease to swell.

Jim tries to breathe. He really does. But in the end, the dark splotches on his vision grow ominously larger, and then –

_Is this dying?_

Jim falls into a great, cushiony darkness. He hangs there for a moment, suspended by Mycroft’s fingertips. Then, in the back of his mind, a door opens. A direction appears, out of nowhere, like all his life Jim’s brain has been moving on train tracks and now he suddenly no longer needs them. Scrambling, dying, Jim reaches out to that new direction in his brain.

Somewhere, dimly, he hears, “You’re fond of fairy-tales, Mr. Moriarty, although your understanding of their purpose is admittedly a bit loose.”

Reality twists. Jim’s mother has burnt dinner again. Da is screaming. Jim scrambles for the door in the back of his brain.

“Perhaps some first-hand experience might be educational.”

Carl Powers is drowning in reverse, rising up from the pool like Christ walking on water, and Sherlock Holmes raises a Browning pistol and puts three – bullets – in – John’s – chest –

Jim lets go of his tortured grip on the world-as-it-is, and slips down the boundary between universes; following the path in his mind that had never existed before.

The last thing he feels is the light in his skull, going softly out.

_\--------------_

“Mi Tzu-hsia,” someone says, “You have to go – it has to be you – ”

Jim’s head feels like someone’s smashing it open with a hammer. He groans, and pries his eyes open. The soft light of a lampstabs mercilessly through his bruised head.

 _Okay. No._ Jim shuts his eyes. That is _not_ worth it. He rolls over onto his side, curling around himself. His skin feels like it’s been peeled, like he’s been burned from the outside in and then reconstructed into something that could only vaguely pass as human.

_I’m a Frankenstein monster._

“Wake up, _now,_ ” the unknown voice insists. “Your mother is very ill. Someone has to go – and there’s only one carriage fast enough. You _have_ to take it, Mi Tzu-hsia, you know you’re his favorite –” A woman. Old, from the sounds of it. Speaking atonal Chinese, with voiceless nasal sounds and thick consonant clusters at the ends of her words. Old Chinese, then. Archaic. _Read about the difference in a dissertation on modern language evolution, or maybe I tortured the antique dealer in Fan Tan Ally too long and – No. Wait. There was a more important bit._

Jim can _understand_ it. This is somewhat worrisome.

Jim doesn’t _speak_ Old Chinese.

_Different world. Different rules. Okay, darling, let’s see what you did here._

Jim takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes again, blinking painfully until the old woman swings into focus. She’s wearing an amazing mass of brilliant silk; open at the front and tied at the waist, swallowtail skirts slithering to the floor as she kneels in a vibrant rush of colour. Jim picks out six separate hues, and an astonishing number of shades. The dress actively makes Jim dizzy. He squints at her, disbelieving. Surely no one could put that on in the morning without going blind.

“Oh, _hurry,_ ” the old woman pleads. She raises a hand and places it on Jim’s face, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jim is - for the first time since he was seven-and-a-half years old - _startled._ Her palm is cool, and the thick, crusted hem of embroidery on her sleeve brushes roughly against Jim’s cheek; begging him to hurry with the pressure of her fingers. Jim goes still, heartbeat slowing in his chest as he registers the sensation.

_Doesn’t that feel **real.**_

_When was the last time someone touched me?_

He recovers quickly – a blink and a narrowing of his eyes that would send any criminal in London running for the colonies. A clean surge of malice sings through his veins, and he opens his mouth to bite her; teeth bared and snarling.

The old woman pulls calmly back, with a sigh. “You’re such a good child. And so beautiful. Surely he will forgive you if you use his carriage…” she searches Jim’s face with glassed over eyes, as if she’s seeing someone else entirely. “Oh, Mi Tzu-hsia. I was as beautiful as you, once,” she tells him. “Years ago…”

Jim stares back, his eyes wide – trying to consciously expand his pupils; widen his optic field; take in more data. No good. The old woman rises to her feet in a graceful, swaying motion which makes her look briefly sixteen instead of sixty. A fortune in gaudy silk swirls about her legs. Jim opens his mouth to ask if she’d heard of taste, years ago –

And frowns. Hmm. _One more time for the sake of science – No. No, I definitely can’t. No talking. When did I miss the no talking rule?_

Jim’s scowl deepens. He almost doesn’t notice the hand on his arm, pulling him upwards. By the time he’s on his feet and stumbling towards the door, he’s got a firm grasp on the fact that he can’t _move_ exactly how he likes, either. As long as he goes in the general direction of the old woman’s pull, it’s fine. As long as he allows himself to be hustled through the house and out into the silent, midnight street, his muscles obey. But any attempt to turn and stop is ignored by his muscles, as if Jim’s brain is simply a passenger along for the ride.

_I’m following a script._

_Just like Sherlock. Oh, Mycroft, **obvious.**_

Jim is helplessly bundled into the carriage.

“He won’t punish you,” the old woman promises, desperate and scared. Jim stares at her from the carriage window. “You’ve always been his favorite.”

The woman’s words gather over Jim’s thoughts like a storm cloud, ominous and grim. He licks cracked lips and focuses – _the most brilliant mind ever made, surely I can get out one word –_ and just barely manages, “Who?”

His voice is a grated whisper.

“The _Lord of Wei,_ ” she tells him, with fear large and real in her eyes.

_\--------------_

“Of course I forgive you,” the Lord of Wei says, sprawled out on his back on the lawn. Somehow, he manages to drawl the words with such thick disgust and sarcasm that Jim can taste it on the air. “Such filial devotion. For your mother’s sake you risked the punishment of amputation.”

The Lord of Wei delivers the lines in monotone, crass and flat, like he’s done it a hundred times before. If he was acting, Jim would fire him. As it stands, Jim can do nothing but stare at his boots and foreshortened legs poisonously.

_I managed ‘who,’ I’m sure I could manage a murder if I really try._

The peach trees are in full fruit and the sun is shining diffuse and fragile through the leaves. The prickly grass is emerald green against Jim’s white knuckles. He curls his fingers around it, grounding himself. The gnarled trunk of a peach tree digs painfully into his spine. He’s posed languidly against it, raising a peach to his lips. Even though Jim’s stomach roils in protest at the thought of eating, he doesn’t try to fight. Bodies aren’t important, after all, and neither is pain.

_Conserve strength. Think. What fun is a fairy-tale if I don’t get to make my own ending?_

Jim cranks his neck to the side, twisting the kinks out, and takes a dainty bite of his peach. The juice floods his mouth, so impossibly sweet that Jim has to force back a moan. He’s never tasted anything like it; full and rich, so crisp on his tongue his head swims.

_Eating might not be boring, if food tasted like **that**._

Jim’s suddenly aware of how hollow his stomach is, how round and heavy the peach is in his hand. The soft fuzz of it crushes underneath his fingers, surface sinking in under even the slightest pressure. Juice traces a sticky trail down Jim’s thumb, to his palm. He licks his lips, feeling the force of craving like an addict, but his hand lowers anyways; denying him a second bite.

The Lord of Wei hasn’t deigned to sit up, or look at Jim. He’s idling a blade of grass between his thumbs with both hands raised above his head. He rubs the stalk up and down, visible in narrow flashes of green against his tan skin. His fingernails are squared sharp off, after the habit of soldiers; there’s scars on the back of his hands, and a callous on his finger where a pen would sit.

The Lord cups his hands to catch the blade of grass between his thumbs, sets his fists to his still unseen face, and holds patiently. Silence hangs between them. There’s a manic pressure bubbling in Jim’s chest. He recognizes it as words; pressing at his throat, at the back of his tongue, and although he fights speaking just to see if he can, his mouth starts to open.

“W –“

The Lord blows, hard, through the grass between his thumbs. A shrill, buzzing whistle cuts off Jim’s line. Jim feels each letter of the words he might have said rebound off the air back into his lungs. He chokes, hacking, trying to set them free – his eyes watering with the force of his convulsions as unspoken syllables block his throat. His shoulders curl forward, chest jerking, stomach muscles drawn tight. The pain frees him to move. Jim lifts his free hand to his neck – not stupid enough to thump his chest and hope for the best, he probes the spasming muscles quickly, knowing exactly what he’s looking for. _Thank god for that Polish strangler and his lessons about – ah! There!_

Jim hits the right series of nerves, and manages to stop coughing. He blinks back tears. There’s a shadow, on the lawn. The Lord of Wei has finally started paying attention.

Jim looks up.

His first impression is short, almost shaven hair; so pale a blonde as to be white. Then the eyes – blue, piercing, wide with shock. The thick red ridge of scar tissue, still healing, brow to lip. Not a Chinese face. Not a fairy-tale prince.

Jim opens his mouth. _That hurt, and where I come from, I **eviscerate** the people who hurt me. _

What comes out instead is, “Would you like a bite of this peach?” The tone of the threat survive; over and under the bare dialogue, Jim’s voice lilts and promises vengeance. _Satisfying._

The Lord’s eyes narrow. He hisses back, “How you must love me. Forgetting the pleasure of your own taste to share with me.” Somehow The Lord manages to make his flattery sound like, _and what the fuck are you doing here?_

Jim glares.

As he hands the peach over, a monumental effort lets him dig his nails in to the vulnerable skin of the Lord’s wrist; leaving two angry, red lines. Blue eyes stare furiously at Jim over the soft fuzz of the peach. Jim bares his teeth. Maybe the script calls for a _smile,_ butthis is a death threat. From the look on the Lord of Wei’s face, that sentiment is entirely clear.

_\--------------_

Jim stands in front of a throne. The Lord of Wei sprawls out in it, regal in repose. He’s adorned with the same rainbow of silk as the old woman, and twice as much jewelry. It doesn’t suit him. He looks like a rough thing, a savage, stealing the clothes of his betters. Jade gleams at his ears and around his throat, delicate against the thick muscle of his neck.

Jim would like to see him in a collar. Or beheaded.

“Your beauty is fading, Mi Tzu-hsia,” the Lord of Wei announces, practically purring with amusement. He’s clearly enjoying his lines. A smile tugs at the corners of his wide, generous mouth.

Jim balls his hands into fists at his sides. “Has your affection cooled, my most beloved Lord?” he asks. Oh, that stings. The Lord of Wei raises an eyebrow and runs his eyes down Jim, _assessing._ Like he has every right to sit on that throne, like Jim _should_ be calling him Lord. Jim bites the inside of his cheek, furious, clawing at himself like a fox in a trap.

_Here is a list of people who think they’re better than me. Here is a list of people who are dead._

_Oh, would you look at that._

“Well,” says the Lord. “Didn’t you once take my carriage without permission? And didn’t you once give me a peach you had already chewed on?” He unfolds from the throne. “There is a punishment for disrespect.”

“What.”

Beside the throne, there rests a curved dagger in a jewelled sheath. The Lord of Wei draws it out. The smile curling around his lips grows broader, showing the dangerous gleam of his canines. “ _Amputation,_ ” he tells Jim. He draws the dagger with one hand and tosses the sheath aside in a smooth and powerful movement. The muscles of his back go loose, his shoulders evening and legs bending as he slides into a fighting stance.

Jim suddenly can’t get enough air. There’s a light in the Lord of Wei’s eyes, something cruel and predatory. He doesn’t so much walk towards Jim as _stalk,_ like a massive carnivorous beast _._ Jim’s heart skitters around his ribcage, searching for an exit. He feels the cool rush of adrenaline in his veins, and with the strength of a mother who lifts a car off her trapped child, rips himself from the script and springs for the door.

The last thing Jim feels is a hot, heavy hand. It wraps around the smallest part of his ankle, grip relentless as chains, and yanks him back to the floor.

_\--------------_

In the blackness between worlds there is the merest wisp of a voice, like someone screaming in the furthest distance.

A name.

“ _Sebastian.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will add tags, warnings, and characters as they become relevant. <3 This work was inspired by a short story about a fairy-tale-hopping-curse I encountered in an anthology as a kid; I haven't been able to locate the story since. If you know it, lemme know too.
> 
> Mi Tzu-hsia and the Lord of Wei was adapted from the version in "Favorite Folk Tales from Around the World," so I don't have a link, but whenever possible I will link to the original fairy tale I'm using for each chapter.


	2. The King of Persia and the Princess of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat loosely from [ The Prince of Persia and the Princess of the Sea ](http://www.wollamshram.ca/1001/Dixon/dixon01_01.htm).
> 
> EDIT: oh my god! You guys! Someone did a fanart!!!! oh my god. That's all. [ Octofied's beautiful portrait of Sebastian and Jim as the Prince of Persia and the Princess of the Sea! ](http://octofied.tumblr.com/post/93084338601/im-planning-on-doing-a-series-of-portraits-of-jim)

_Sebastian._  
  
Jim glares up at him, in chains.

The open throne room hums with courtiers: haughty Sumarian warriors, gawking country-bumpkin Greeks, nomadic tribesmen in rough-cut leathers despite the oppressive heat. Two lines of Immortals keep guard along the open walls, each of their identical bows notched with an identical arrow. Over their shoulders, the sun sets and the sea gleams, painting diamond reflections high on the massive red stone walls. A gentle breeze blows the stink of sweat and perfume from the room, but it doesn’t relieve the muggy heat drying out Jim’s mouth. Jim jangles his chains in front of him, feeling the cuffs stick uncomfortably to  his wrists.

The fabric of Sebastian’s tunic shimmers with gold as he leans forward on his throne, catching the light and reflecting bright spots up into Jim’s eyes. A sword hangs at his side, a black lacquered bow strung over his back. Instead of a crown, he wears a golden cowl – probably real gold, _gaudy,_ no accounting for taste or practicality. Sebastian looks like a pampered lion, brushed out and spoiled, but all Jim thinks of is (bizarrely) Heroditus –

 _From the age of five, Persians are only taught three things. To ride, to draw a bow, and never to lie_.

The merchant who brought Jim in as a slave for display is a wet rag; a scraping man with his forehead rubbed off from grinding it against the floor. He wrings his hands, flapping them at Jim’s chest ineffectually.

“ _Kneel,”_ he bleats, more scared of offending the King than actually _commanding_. Jim snaps every bone in his body straight. His chin whips up. He’ll bow to Sebastian when pigs fly. And shoot each other out of the air with machine guns. Made of _never_.

The merchant, giving ordering Jim around up as a bad deal, drops to his knees and flings himself forward on the ground in front of the throne. Sebastian looks at him dismissively, then his blue-flecked-gold eyes slide back to Jim. As if he can’t look away.

Jim stretches out his neck under that narrow gaze, refusing to be stared down.

_You’re no one, anyways. There’s only one king in this room, pet._

Sebastian’s got an expression on his face like the throne is massively uncomfortable. Jim considers sweetly suggesting giving it up, but with his jaw wired shut by narrative structure, he can only communicate the idea with faces. His grimace has the unfortunate effect of making Sebastian laugh. Jim sucks spit over his teeth with a drawn out squeak, and looks away. His finger-tips itch for his phone.

_Ten seconds in the real world and I’d have him made **into** a throne for me._

“Oh, Kurus,” the merchant begins, distributing spittle over the floor as he speaks, “Great King, King of Persia, King of Anshan, King of Media, King of Babylon, King of Sumer and Akkad, and King of the Four Corners of the World, Kurus who won the Persians their Empire…!” The merchant is forced to pause to pant for breath. He flaps his fat, sweaty hands in the air. When he turns his head and they catch the light, Sebastian’s eyelashes glow against the hard bones of his cheek.

_Wonder where he got that scar. Maybe he’d like another._

“Yes?” Sebastian prods the merchant, encouragingly.

“King of Kings! I have heard that you have no consort. So I came from the furthest lands – I beg your majesty to behold, the most beautiful and charming slave it would be possible to find if you searched every corner of the earth – if you agree, if you but see – you will surely wish to be married this instant.”

Sebastian laughs; a sharp barking cough in the depths of his chest. It slams over the quiet sound of the court and Jim jumps – making his chains rattle. Sebastian grins, and Jim hisses like a cat under water.

_I’m going to make him into a chair. Then I’m going to grind Mycroft’s bones for porcelain. I’ll have a nice quiet cup of tea –_

Sebastian gives Jim that insulting once-over, again, and Jim’s hackles rise. He hunches his shoulders up, in the manner of an insulted bird of prey.

“I’ve never beheld such beauty and grace,” Sebastian drawls, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “We must be married at once.”

\---------------

And they were.

Jim punts a heavily embroidered pillow out the window, fuming. _Cause this fair slave to be lodged in the next finest apartment to my own,_ Jim’s fucking _pert Irish ass._ The most infuriating part is that if Jim had tricked his way here as a result of his own cleverness, he’d love it. There’d been a stream of women into his rooms after the wedding, offering pearl necklaces and diamonds and deep, red, rubies like blood. Not to mention the silks. Although if Sebastian expects that little wispy blue number to go _anywhere near_ Jim –

_Not **now.**_

Jim takes several sharp breaths through his teeth and pinches his nose between two fingers. He paces the room in short, cut-off steps, wheeling neatly on his heel when he hits the sumptuous tapestries of the walls. _Think._ Jim digs his fingers into his arms, pinching down for clarity. Despite the clear, tangerine-orange sky, the roar of the sea seems loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Even thought. The fourth wall of the room is gone and the floor drops thirty feet without a barrier to the hard rocks of the sea. The crash of the waves is incessant, overpowering.

 _Who is he, then?_ Sebastian. _Was he Sent?_ Jim spins again, ending up facing a copper-plated mirror. He scowls at himself in it, then straightens his shoulders and huffs out his stomach, just to be obstinate. _Most beautiful and graceful slave in the world, **ha.**_

_I hope he paid too much for me._

Jim throws himself onto a sofa, facing the wide open sky. When he stares at the sea, there’s a curious lurch in his heart. A longing. As if somewhere, beneath the waves, he left behind…

Jim twists uncomfortably and shuts his eyes. As soon as he looks away from the water, the cloying, violating feeling shuts off. He can still feel its echo; intimately wrong, an intrusion in the deep parts of his mind. _Odd._ Jim's flick back open, and he sets his mouth. _Back to the task at hand. Sebastian – the King – did Mycroft Send him? Why?_

_ And oh, the things I have left behind – _

Jim starts, nearly falling off the couch. There’s a wrench in his chest that leaves him gasping, someone else’s sorrow punched straight through his heart. His eyes widen. _That is **not** – I don’t – _He frowns, brown knitting thoughtfully. _Hm._

For speculation’s sake, he looks back at the sea. It opens up again inside him; a wide, screaming chasm of loss. Jim winces - nearly losing his focus - and endures it the way he would a physical torment: curious, probing to see how deep it goes. _This must be what ordinary people feel. How **ever** do they manage? _ Jim presses a hand to his heart. It’s like he’s being vised smaller. In his chest, something cries, begging to be heard. Jim reels with the force of it. _I'd go insane in a day. Well. **More** insane. It just goes on, and on, doesn't it? The hurting. _ Even his breath feels short, like there's not enough room inside him for both despair and oxygen.

The heavy sound of a foot-step breaks Jim’s revere and he spins away from the waves and pain. He's panting, chest heaving like he's just sprinted ten miles. Sebastian stands framed in the doorway with a look on his face halfway between two expressions; caught in the transition from distaste to surprise. Jim snarls at him, and distaste slams back down over Sebastian like a mask. He's thrown away the gold and finery, wearing a simple cotton tunic that does very little to conceal the hard muscles of his chest. _The term "cut" comes to mind. As does "I'd rather stick my face in a blender."_ If the fairy-tale calls for Jim to rise and go to Sebastian, he’ll _scream._ Jim balls his hands in his lap and stubbornly refuses to be moved – turning his head imperiously to the wall and clamping his lips shut on any words that might attempt to escape.

To his surprise, no words bubble against his chest. A deep, still silence sits inside him.

 _Good,_ Jim thinks, with vindictive pleasure, _Now if only that idiot came with a muzzle._

“I’ll attribute your rudeness to ignorance,” Sebastian says. For once the words fit his tone. “No one took to instruct you in the first rules of civility.” Jim licks his tongue up under his canines, and bites down hard just to feel the rawness of it. _If anyone **attempts** to try – _

Still, Jim is silent. He stares at the wall. In the rough red stone, patterns move like static on a TV screen. Jim bites his lip, but still, no words rise in his throat. Instead, that awful choking sadness hangs around him like a cloud. Irritated, he hunches his shoulders up to his ears – but no matter how much he growls at himself, he can’t ease the hollow feeling inside him.

He can hear the soft pad of Sebastian’s feet over the floor to the couch, and then a clink-and-whisper as the gold plated king sinks to his knees. “You don’t answer,” Sebastian says. Jim rolls his eyes.

_No. Really?_

“You don’t give me the least reason to believe you’re listening to me. Why?”

Jim’s stomach turns. He wants to twist and glare at Sebastian, snap, _Daddy’s going to be **cross** if you keep talking, _ but he can’t move except to slide his eyes from the wall to the sea. There’s a prick, a sting at the corners of his eyes. The waves blur, becoming a featureless blue stretch across his field of vision. Jim touches his cheeks, unthinking. His fingertips come back wet.

 _Oh. Isn’t that odd,_ Jim thinks, curious and empty.

“ _Why?_ ” Sebastian repeats. “Can’t I comfort you? I am the King of Persia. I own the world, and for you – I would give anything to make amends for any loss you suffer.” Underneath the question, there’s real curiosity. Jim looks up.

Sebastian is surprisingly close. Jim’s breath catches in his throat. In the locked part of his brain, the part that views his alien emotions with detached curiosity, something animal _snarls._ Sebastian’s eyelashes flick against his cheek as he glances down Jim’s face. He reaches out.

A warm thumb brushes the tears from Jim’s cheek.

Jim is filled with a fury so pure and complete that he thinks he might burn from the inside out with it. He starts to shake, trembling impotently as Sebastian’s other hand mirrors the gesture. _Cupping Jim’s face,_ damn him, how _dare_ he. Jim grabs the bars in his mind with both hands and shakes, screaming for freedom.

His betraying body blinks the tears away and looks up at Sebastian. Sebastian’s expression is bitter, the side of his cheek concave and flushed. He must be biting down on the inside.

 _I’m going to kill you,_ Jim screams, in the silence of his own mind, _I will kill you, I will flay you, I will break your bones and dip your heart in acid._

Sebastian’s eyes squeeze shut with an effort. Jim can see his jaw tense as he grits his teeth, but the words grind out anyways. “My most beloved, my world, I cannot see you suffer.” His face is red. He looks like _he’s_ the one suffering.

 _Don’t you dare,_ Jim thinks. But in the end, he’s the one that leans forward. He’s the one that presses their lips together.

\---------------

Afterwards, Jim lies awake in the circle of Sebastian’s arms and contemplates death. His skin is still sticky with sweat, his muscles loose with afterglow. He tries to think of folk stories that don’t involve romance, and can’t. His face is pressed to the broad, scarred plane of Sebastian’s chest. Each breath Sebastian takes, slow and even, makes Jim’s hair move as if in a breeze. Sebastian breathes deep in his stomach, the rise and fall of his diaphragm just under Jim’s nose. Moonlight from the vast window drains Sebastian’s skin delicately of colour until he is carved of pure, clean marble.

“I hate you,” Jim manages in a whisper, because it seems important. He can hear each beat of Sebastian’s heart, like a dirge. He’s not expecting the rumbling sigh underneath him.

“You aren’t supposed to talk, in this one,” Sebastian murmurs back.

Jim’s breath catches. “You _know._ ”

“Yeah. You’re real. Not like them. You were Sent.” Sebastian’s chest shifts underneath Jim as he shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t think there was anyone else…”

“How long have you –”

“Years. Decades, maybe. Forever. Who knows…” Another shift, then Sebastian stills; his fingers run down Jim’s spine absent-mindedly. Jim bristles, feeling goose bumps raise in the wake of Sebastian’s fingers. He hisses, angry, but he can’t squirm away.

There’s a wet sound as Sebastian licks his lips. “It’s only possible to break the stories on little things if you fight hard enough. A whisper, a blade of grass...”

“Not this.” Sebastian’s fingers stroke again, and this time Jim can feel the tremble in them; trying to stop. He remembers the warmth of Sebastian’s thumbs on his tears, the naked loathing in Sebastian’s eyes.

_Were we both screaming, in our heads?_

“No,” Sebastian says, “Not this.”

Underneath his words Jim can hear the ever-present roar of the sea, hollow and suffering.

\---------------

“My queen,” Sebastian says, with a mocking bow. Jim rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and waits. “I lack but one thing for happiness. If you would speak to me, but one single word, I swear I would be the happiest man alive. Break this long silence, and speak but that one word to me, and after I care not how soon I die.”

He clasps a hand melodramatically to his heart. Jim scoffs, but he can’t help but smile – a twitch of his lips upwards that he quickly wrestles down.

Sebastian’s eyes widen in surprise. He laughs, delighted – that same abrupt, barking cough that had startled Jim in the throne room. The skin of his face crinkles around his scars in amusement.

\---------------

Jim is staring at the sea, prodding the sorrow inside him like a missing tooth or a bruise. It’s never entirely gone, although sometimes it eases. It never feels like _his_ sorrow, either; Jim doesn’t know what _his_ sorrow would feel like, but it isn’t this lonely, plaintive gulf.

_And it wouldn’t be because of the sea._

Sebastian’s footsteps startle Jim out of his reverie. He twists, frowning at the interruption. _What **now?**_

The look on Sebastian’s face chills Jim’s spine. Guarded, as if he’s expecting something unpleasant to happen. The rings on his fingers glitter as Sebastian reaches out his hands, and Jim can tell by the stilted movement that he has no choice but to do it.

 _Here we go again._ Jim resigns himself to taking Sebastian’s hands and standing. He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows – _come on, then, do your line, let’s get it over with –_

There’s a twitch of Sebastian’s head. It might be a shake. Jim’s eyes narrow. He feels a pressure in the back of his throat, like a cough building, but he doesn’t recognize it in time to fight.

“Beloved Lord and Master,” he hears himself say.

Jim goes still.

He feels his expression chill as colour and blood drain from his face. Sebastian’s eyes close, slowly, like a man accepting execution. The rest of the words pour easily out over Jim’s tongue without permission. “I was resolved never to love you,” Jim says. Inside his skull he grabs at each syllable, trying to snatch them back, humiliated and furious. He tries to wrench his fingers from Sebastian’s grip; change the adoring way his head tilts as he stares up at his king. _Sebastian! Not any king, and certainly not mine!_ “I meant to keep an eternal silence.”

Jim feels himself drawn forward. He goes rigid as Sebastian embraces him, trying to flatten himself into a solid block of wood. Or steel. Anything but warm flesh: pressing back into Sebastian’s chest like he _enjoys_ being there.

“Oh, my dearest soul!” Sebastian exclaims. The familiar self-loathing and disgust is thick on his tongue. Jim doesn’t care. Sebastian can hate himself all he wants; he’s still _doing_ this – still running his fingers through Jim’s hair as if he has _every right –_ “Tell me what kept you silent for so long, my love. For I am convinced, now, you must love me.”

It sounds like an apology. The last time someone apologized to Jim, it was a hired thug who let his mark get away. Jim pierced his Achilles tendons with hooks and hung him off a bridge.

“ _Think,_ ” Jim snipes at Sebastian. “I was a slave. Isn’t that enough reason? Slavery is an intolerable weight on any soul, and mine more than most.”

Sebastian pulls back enough to smile at Jim. “Oh? Until this moment I was of opinion that a slave ought to think herself very happy in having a king for her lover.”

“ _She_ might, only _I_ am in _no way_ inferior to the king that bought me.”

_Oh._

Jim stops rattling the bars of his cage for a moment to internally grin. _That’s good. I don’t mind that._ He feels his next words before he says them, and the grin widens. He plasters it on his face, snarling fierce and triumphant with his breath on Sebastian’s lips. “If your majesty is so ignorant to forget the humiliation of slavery, it is no wonder you finds my suffering inexplicable.” The rush of words is powerful, loosening Jim’s tongue and reinforcing his spine. Jim gathers his strength, wrenches himself upright, and spits in Sebastian’s face – “ _I’m the King of Shadows, and no one touches me!_ ”

Forcing the words out makes Jim’s stomach clench so hard it feels like a blow, and he thinks for a second he’s going to vomit. His vision swims, and Sebastian’s grip on him tightens on a sharp inhale. His fingers are bruising tight, but it’s the only thing holding Jim upright. Light-headed, unable to see straight, Jim practically crows in triumph. _I am the King of Shadows,_ he sings to himself. _Fuck,_ that felt good. Even the raw agony in Jim’s gut can’t detract from his glee.

When he blinks the world back into focus, Sebastian’s eyes are wide. “Can it be possible that you are of royal blood?” he breathes, in genuine shock. “Tell me your secret, my love. Above all else, tell me your name.”

“Where my family rules, only an ignorant man would not know me,” Jim pronounces, drawing himself up to stare Sebastian down. “I am the Rose of the Sea. My brother rules beneath the waves as my father did before him. I speak the tongue of Solomon. Sea water runs in my veins instead of blood. I have fought a war and buried a sister and you are not, you are _not_ , my equal.” _How dare you enslave me!_ Jim’s voice drops low and growling. His fists clench at his sides, and Sebastian releases him; stumbling backwards.

Jim’s eyes lock with Sebastian’s. There’s a familiar expression on Sebastian’s face; it’s the one Jim’s employees get when he finally drops the mask and stops playing gay long enough for them to see what he’s really like.

Jim snaps his neck sideways. “My brother tried to marry me off to an invading Prince from the land, as if he had any right to do _that._ ”

Sebastian’s mouth works as the colour drains from his cheeks.

_Do you have a line, darling? Too scared to **talk**?_

_I might like you best this way._

“I fled the sea and came to this miserable island, and you land-dwellers had the gall to _enslave_ me.” Jim pauses for effect, haughty and untouchable. “No matter what _condition_ I am reduced to, I will _never_ bow. Not to you, not to anyone.” He hisses, barely more than a whisper, so Sebastian is forced strain his ears and lean forward. “I swore I would die beneath the waves before I’d marry someone with sluggish _meat_ in his heart.”

Sebastian looks like something heavy has been dropped on his head. “So, when I...”

“Yes. I was resolved. And _you_ –“

“Please, my love. Don’t speak those awful things. I understand. I will free you, and you will never see me again…”

“- You had the _gall_ to save my _life_.” Jim is more surprised by the words than Sebastian. He falters, losing his rhythm, and his voice continues without motivation; monotone and flat. “I was going to risk the rocks and throw myself into the sea, when you first came to my window. I – you are not my better and you are not my king, but…”

“Oh, my most beloved Queen…” Sebastian’s whisper is reverent. He’s still dead pale. But now he’s staring at Jim in awe; his lips slightly parted. “How pleased I have been since you condescended to be my wife. An honour no other inhabitant on the earth can boast of beside myself.”

The honest humility in his voice makes Jim go still. Sebastian drops to his knees. His eyes are clear, curious, and completely open. Jim’s hand trembles, not entirely from anger or resistance, as he reaches out and touches the scar on Sebastian’s brow.

“Be my Queen as equal, then,” Sebastian says. He presses into the touch, staring up at Jim.

If he were an employee, this would be the moment Jim would own his soul forever.

“You are my mistress. Do whatever you please; if it please you to leave, go. If it please you to stay, I will never forget what you have told me today.”

There’s a lump in Jim’s throat. Not words. Is it sorrow, again? He swallows, hard, and nods.

\---------------

The King of the Sea comes for his sister. “Princess-Beneath-the-Waves,” he calls, from the froth beneath Jim’s window. “Rose of the Sea. You were a slave, and you now have it in your power to free yourself. I shall give you the money it takes to buy yourself free of the King of Persia. Come home and be your own master, and I shall slay those who dishonored you.”

Jim’s fingers drum against the red brick of his palace. “Brother,” he says, “I am no slave. It would be easy to return the ten thousand pieces of gold that I cost the King of Persia, but I am not ten thousand pieces of gold.” _How dare you sell me that cheap, brother-mine._ “I, too, am Ruler of Persia, and I sit as equals with its King. Do not speak to me of leaving, for my heart lives in this castle. It cannot be paid for in gold.”

\---------------

Jim turns from the window, resettling himself on the sofa with a sigh. Sebastian, in the door frame, is staring at him.

“ _What?_ ” Jim asks, petulantly, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

_His own words. His own motion._

Jim freezes.

“That’s the end of the story,” Sebastian says. When he’s not speaking someone else’s dialogue, he’s got a smooth, careful voice. It’s just a little bit rough and gravelly on the vowels, rugged in disuse. “It always ends there. Gulnare refuses to return, and happily ever after. What have you _done?_ ”

Jim shakes his head, and shrugs. “If I knew how to break the stories, do you think I’d do the rest of that drivel?” He stretches luxuriously on the couch, enjoying the play of muscles left in his control again. “ _Mmm- **mmm.**_ That is _wonderful._ ” He can feel Sebastian staring.

“…You called yourself the King of Shadows.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Who _are_ you?”

Jim looks up, and opens his mouth to say _Jim Moriarty, **hi,**_ but before he can there’s a swell of sound. _Not_ the sea.

The red brick walls are crumbling, suddenly, falling into decay like a time-lapse film. Sebastian’s eyes widen. Jim sees his clothing start to twist, start to change. There’s a glimpse of rich, thick fur, and the deepest orange like the edge of a tiger stripe. The smell of blood, and rank sweat, and fear.

Then once again, electricity sparks across his back brain, and Jim is falling.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was like pulling teeth, for some reason. Ah well, it's done. Thanks a bunch to my beta, Mie.
> 
> Fair warning - those of you that know me know there will be porn, eventually. Seeing as it would currently be a level of pseudo-mind-control dubcon that I would just straight up not find enjoyable to write, I'm going to leave it until both characters actually /want/ to be doing that sort of thing. We're still in visceral-horror territory for me, as far as it would pretty much be a double rape, so don't expect these early chapters to include it. Just as a bit of explanation for why the work is tagged explicit and we're skipping over the love scenes!
> 
> Fairy Tale is Verde Prato by Giambattista Basile. A summary can be found [ here. ](http://carolsnotebook.com/2013/05/30/thursdays-tale-verde-prato/)
> 
> Edit: Oh my god, guys! [Octofied](http://octofied.tumblr.com) over on tumblr has drawn some beautiful and amazing fanart! [Look at this, this is incredible!](http://octofied.tumblr.com/post/93717929051/this-is-the-second-series-of-portraits-of-jim-and)

Jim opens the door to the secret tunnel.

“ _Hurry,_ ” he gasps, casting a glance over his shoulder. The hallway is dark and silent, family portraits looming sternly overhead. Sebastian hauls himself up, and together they shove the trap-door closed.

Jim has a flashing impression of Sebastian in the dimness – face lined in shadow, hair grey, eyes blue and sorrowful. Then Sebastian crushes Jim back against the wall and kisses him desperately.

Sebastian’s breath is hot in Jim’s mouth, the weight of his chest solid and hard. His tongue teases at Jim’s, flicking, teasingly light compared to the frantic press of his lips. Jim, reeling, doesn’t have time to be disgusted – doesn’t have time even to _process_ what’s happening. Sebastian’s hands smooth along Jim’s jaw, holding him into the kiss, and Jim loses himself. He’s nothing. He’s just a gasp, as Sebastian grinds them together. His head is light and fuzzy, his skin prickly and sensitive. For once, Jim can’t think. He should be howling _stop_ – he will – in just a minute –

Sebastian bites Jim’s lip. The pain is electric, pinning Jim to the floor and the wall. He trembles, and Sebastian pulls back. A rough thumb strokes Jim’s cheek, Sebastian’s eyes intent and curious on his own.

There’s something in Sebastian’s expression that owes nothing to the darkened hallway. Something fixated on the heated skin of Jim’s lips.Jim stares back at Sebastian, blinking in the moment of shock that comes before absolute fury can register.

“Hey,” Sebastian says, and grins. His lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. His blown eyes fix on the thudding pulse in Jim’s throat.

_Entirely aware of how good he is at – that conceited little fuck!_

Jim doesn’t realize his mouth is gaping until his jaw snaps shut. He glares at Sebastian, furious.

“How long do we have?” Sebastian asks.

“Not long,” Jim tells him, “My sisters will be awake soon…”

“Let’s not waste it, then.” Sebastian takes Jim’s hand and draws him to his feet.

Jim takes a deep breath and collects himself. He turns on his heel with a snap of his arm, and leads Sebastian down the hallway like he’s walking to the gallows. The thick, dark carpets suck up all sound of their footsteps, leaving them to wander in eerie silence. Overhead, portrait after portrait looms; ugly, evil men and women dressed in garish finery, twisted and spiteful. Oil paint faces frown and leer down at the two men as they pass, disapproving.

 _I should hang a swagger portrait on the fireplace back home,_ Jim thinks, _myself with a Sebastian-skin-rug._

His bedroom is at the end of the hall. Jim regards the door coolly when they reach it. He can almost feel the cool metal of the knob under his fingers already. He knows what will happen when they go in; the heat of Sebastian’s chest close against his back could tell him _that._

Jim worries the skin of his thumb underneath the nail of his forefinger, twisting to sneak a sidelong glance at Sebastian. _Just sex. Just bodily functions. If I can break the fairy tales, I can get free._ Sebastian has his lip drawn in over his teeth, but in the darkness Jim can’t read his eyes. The chestnut-stained wood of the door looms ominously over both of them. Jim’s chest rises and falls on a quick inhale.

 _A thousand times before,_ he tells himself. _Jim from IT, Richard Brook. I’ve done it when I needed to and never thought twice._

_At least he’s prettier than Molly._

Jim reaches out for the handle, turns it slow to muffle the deafening click in the hall by a decibel or two. Sebastian’s posture changes; going still and tense on the balls of his feet. He turns his head sideways, in the attentive nature of a dog perking its ears. Jim opens the door a creaking inch, and slips inside the bedroom.

There’s a fire in the grate, warm and comfortable. It paints the rich velvet and silk of the bed sheets with soft, woolen shadows. The air smells of roses and wine. Jim turns.

Sebastian’s closer than Jim thought he was.

They’re nearly chest to chest, lip to lip in the shifting light. Jim’s stomach mysteriously loses its bottom. Sebastian is breathing hard, nostrils flaring. The muscles in his arms are tense, tendons standing stark out against his wrists.

 _I know this dance._ Jim places his hands on the steely muscle of Sebastian’s arms, and draws him towards the bed. He looks somewhere into the middle distance, over Sebastian’s shoulder, and lists very carefully the ways he’s going to try to escape. Sebastian pushes Jim down on the sheets. His mouth sets on Jim’s collar. The script calls for Jim to moan, so he moans; his mind withdrawing, retreating inwards even as his body writhes underneath Sebastian’s teeth.

 _Lie back and think of England,_ Jim tells himself, giggling without any humour at all.

He adds bullet points to his neat, tidy list.

\----------

The next night, Sebastian doesn’t show up in the hallway.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Jim stares out his window at the frost on the sill. Ice writes up his window, creeping spider-webs in blue and silver.

Intrusive grief chokes his throat. _I’ve never been lonely,_ he tells himself firmly, watching the snow fall outside in silence. But the script calls for Jim to mourn, so he mourns.

\----------

“He’s injured.” Jamie has a glistening, reptilian smile, framed between her glossy red lips. She exists in a cloud of cloying rose perfume, gesturing languidly between each sip of her mulled wine. Her wrists are limp and pale. Jim scowls at her.

“He’ll get _better,_ ” he protests, clenching the fabric of his trousers between his fists.

Jamie’s eyebrow arcs, a perfect crescent curve. “Will he? They say he went and got himself cut by enchanted glass. They say it’ll never heal.” She clicks her tongue. It moves between her white teeth and full lips like a worm in an apple. “He’ll probably die.”

_That would be nice, wouldn’t it?_

Jim feels the cold tendrils of dread curl around his heart. It triggers a sort of detached curiosity. Caught between the two emotions, he bends his head to his tea and sips it. The steam rising from it is hot on his face, the smell of chai and whiskey burning a path up through his nose. Jamie has a wine-stain on her finger, over the glittering diamonds. Four diamond rings; ring-finger bare. The tight press of her lips is starting to show wrinkles.

 _I’ll bet she has cobwebs where it counts,_ Jim thinks, and grins to himself.

\----------

They tell Jim four times to be back by nightfall when they send him for the shopping. Bony, perfumed Jamie, and his other sister Jane – with her wide white stomach like the dead flesh of a whale.

Jim still delays. He finds time to wander amongst the busy shops of the village, letting the shadowy people drift by him without registering. By the time he reaches the bakers’, even the afternoon bread has begun to cool. He lingers there, where the snow has melted outside the oven doors. Eventually he settles on buying two loaves, soft white insides inside crispy bones of crust. The baker hollows them out, leaving spicy pepper-sausage hidden in them like hearts.

They say in the village that Sebastian can’t keep food down; the wounds have gone septic, poison seeping into his stomach from a thousand tiny cuts. Enchanted glass, like the panes that line the tunnel Sebastian runs every night. They’re supposed to keep it safe from detection; ancient and reserved only for lovers.

Enchanted glass does not break on its own.

 _Well, well._ Jim tucks the bread into his satchel and grins. _My darling sisters, I assume._ Neither one of them wears a wedding ring; their mouths turn helplessly down at the corners between their wrinkles, lonely and powerless. _Bitter old maids: burning down love if they can’t have it for themselves. Typical._

Snow is falling outside. The sky is growing darker. Jim rucks his bag higher up on his shoulder, and sets out into the woods towards his house.

\----------

The ogress must be ten feet tall at the shoulder; stooped over so her massive, misshapen head doesn’t break the treeline. Her hair is oily, stringy, tucked in long limp dreads behind two pointed ears. In the center of her bulbous face is a nose like a potato, jutting uncomfortably between high cheekbones and large, glittering black eyes. She grunts to herself, mumbling as she picks through the mushrooms at the side of the road. The reek of fear, sweat and blood, flows off her in waves as she moves. The skin of her cheeks and neck are spattered with moles, and deep pits from scratching.

Jim freezes on the path, snow seeping into his boots. His feet are cold and sodden already, and the stars are just starting to come out overhead. The harsh breath Jim sucks in tastes of frost, stabbing down his throat in a thousand icy pinpricks.

A widow-maker cracks like a gunshot, somewhere out on the dark horizon of the forest. Jim’s eyes are dry from stretching wide. He blinks, rapidly, and reminds himself to exhale. The warmed air from his lungs hangs visibly between them, but the ogress doesn’t seem to notice.

The smell of overturned earth gets stronger as she rips more mushrooms from the ground, shoving them into the stained pockets of her apron. Her fingers are the size of kitchen knives. They have four knuckles. Jim’s numb hands curl inside his mittens.

**_Love_ ** _to have her on the payroll. Wonder if she does freelance?_

He licks his lips and hums thoughtfully to himself. One of the ogress’s ears twitches, and she half-turns; peering over her shoulder with a near-sighted squint to her brow. Jim’s twenty feet away, wide open in the middle of the road. Her nostril’s flare and she tilts her head up, scenting at the wind.

Jim wills himself still and prays to god Jamie’s perfume hasn’t lingered.

The ogress spits to the side and looks back down, resuming her mumbling. Jim creeps closer, laying his feet slow on the snow of the road so frost and rock stays silent under his feet.

_“When the moon was full and day was spent_

_along the ley-lines magic went._

_Now the stars are out, and out comes me,_

_to pick the magic, set it free.”_

Jim nearly snorts to himself, but he catches it in time. The sky is black, now, and there are no colours in the world; only snow, and the bare, dark bones of the trees. As he slips between the shadows, Jim can hear the song she sings in a constant stream under her breath. She has a voice like old chestnuts, worn and smooth and disarmingly comfortable. Jim thinks of the larger boys playing conkers at school when they were children, and sets his mouth. Saliva runs down the corner of the ogress’s lips, over her chin, and she wipes it impatiently away with the back of her hand.

_“Free that is, to boil and brew_

_and from them make a magic stew._

_What bold young hero ever thought_

_To steal my magic from my pot?”_

Plucking the last of the mushrooms, the ogress straightens. Her long, pointed ears catch on the branches of the trees above them. Her face is lost in shadow, but Jim can see the ivory shine of two long, monstrous fangs as she smiles to herself.

 

_“And if they try, for heroes do,_

_I’ll gladly pick their bones in two._

_Throw their blood into the pot_

_Where healing magic’s growing hot._

_What a joke, when heroes die,_

_to use my cure to boil their eyes!”_

 

“Hello,” Jim hears himself say, with horror. “Can you help me? I’m lost.”

\----------

_“Poor Human boy, come poking in –_

_Blood hot and thick beneath his skin._

_With skin like milk and eyes like stones._

_And marrow hiding in his bones._

_I’ll take him home and ease his plight –_

_(Soup’ll taste of Gael tonight) –_

_Crack his back and take his skin_

_Make a dress for dancing in."_

Jim doesn’t think she knows he can hear her. Although it might be funnier if she _could._

He follows her down off the path and the leaves of the forest close over their heads. Jim can feel a distant fear beating against his temples. He ignores it; steading his satchel with one hand as he walks calmly beside the ogress to her house. A fairy-tale princess might be afraid, but the ogress is roughly the same dimensions and disposition as most of Jim’s clients.

He feels his face fall into the familiar lines of his crazy-dog grin. _Showtime._

\----------

The ogress slams face-down into her pot of stew and Jim allows himself a triumphant snort of contempt. He empties his own wine-glass through the cracks on the floor with a deft, discrete twist of the wrist that he learned in Dublin.

The thirty-seventh time he’s done it tonight.

The ogress is snoring loud enough to blow the saliva out from her mouth, thick and mucousy. Above her head - jutting precariously from what must be a whole roast cow - is a gilded sword. The ogress is using it as a carving knife. It’s as long as Jim’s torso. He draws it out with a sucking sound, oil and fat running back into the carcass, and nearly falls over at the weight.

But he gets it. The leather-bound grip is still hot in his hand from meat and stove. Jim feels it slip on his sweat, and grips tighter. By the door there’s a rough-hewn bucket that he can just manage in the other hand. Thus armed, he turns back to the ogress. She’s still snoring into her stew. There’s not much left; a few measly bites of mushroom, swimming in oily broth. Jim thinks hard, tilting his head to stare at her. He twists out his neck, just to hear it pop, and rolls his shoulders.

_So much for not getting my hands dirty._

Under the table there are dust bunnies bigger than he is. Jim sticks the sword between his teeth to keep it from dragging, quietly appalled. He’s used to a higher standard of evil, after all. The floors of his mansion back home have enough shine that he’s had to modify the security cameras.

Jim puts his hand down into a pile of dust and it sinks clean through to the elbow. He grimaces. _That’s it, changed my mind, I **don’t** want to be a Disney Princess._

_I’m going to take everyone who’s ever written dirt and mud into their fairy tales, and lock them in a very small room with a whole bunch of mosquitoes until they starve or go mad._

The ogress’s gut looms in front of him like curdled cottage cheese. Jim can see the bulge of her meal, sitting high between her ribs. The pop and burble of gas is audible, even over the rumbling gasps of her snores. Jim shoves himself to a crouch, in a coughing cloud of dust. The sword nearly overbalances him, and he catches himself with a hand in a pool of…

 _I make more in a year than some **countries,** _ Jim thinks to himself hysterically. He very determinedly does _not_ think about what he’s wiping off of his hand onto his trousers.

He grips the sword tight in both hands, and sets the bucket in front of the ogress’ belly. _Oh no,_ Jim pleads with himself. He draws back the sword, positioning for a thrust. It bends him over back, the bucket between his knees, a fold of the ogress’ fat positioned directly over his head. _No._

She smells of yeast and rank meat and rotting corpse.

_No no no no no no no –_

Jim pulls back, and thrusts the blade upwards. It pierces her stomach with a jolt that jars Jim’s arms all the way to the shoulder, making his hands go numb. The ogress’s scream doesn’t rend the air as much as crush it; making all other sound impossible, bellowing her death on every frequency. With sheer force of will Jim doesn’t drop the blade as she bucks above him.

He sees it pierce the membranous sack of her stomach and squeezes the bucket between his knees. Mushroom soup and stomach acid bulges on the tip of his blade like a water balloon on the end of the pin.

 _Oh, **fuck me,**_ Jim thinks, and shuts his eyes.

\----------

 

Sebastian lies like death in his sick bed, face pale, blonde hair like spun gold against the white of his pillows. He breathes shallowly, his chest barely rising and falling. The bandages that cover him are crusted in yellow puss and rust, stained even through multiple layers of wrapping.

Jim draws his blade and stands over Sebastian’s sleeping form. The room smells of sick, of chemicals and death like a hospital. Sebastian’s breath whispers between his lips. Fragile.

The bandages rip Sebastian’s scabs off as Jim cuts them from his body. In his sleep Sebastian grunts, fingers twitching at the pain. He’s too far gone to wake up. The unhealthy miasma of the sick room is cut through with the copper tang of blood as his wounds open and start to leak, thin trickles of red running down his tanned skin to the crisp white sheets.

Jim makes a face. _The things these people do for love._

He smears the offal and waste in the bucket into the prince’s wounds. _When I get free from this, before I kill Mycroft, I’m showering for a **week.**_ Thick hunks of fat and gore and partially digested stew coat his fingers, stringy and clinging. His fingernails are stained yellow by stomach acid.

But as he smears the mess over Sebastian’s wounds, they begin to close. Sebastian’s skin loses its drained, grey tone, flushing pink. The next draw of air into Sebastian’s lungs is steady, strong. Jim feels a fierce surge of joy – just as alien and strange as the sorrow had been.

“Thank god,” he whispers, and only half understands why.

Sebastian’s eyelids flutter open. The whites of his eyes are shot through by red, making his irises startlingly blue. His fingers twitch on the bed again, and then his hand raises.

He runs it down the dirty collar of Jim’s shirt, feeling the roughness of the fabric. “B-beloved,” he croaks. His voice is rough with disuse.

His eyes are wide and disbelieving. Jim smiles despite himself as he presses his hand to Sebastian’s cheek in answer. “Bet you didn’t think you were the damsel,” he quips.

Sebastian laughs weakly, chest shuddering into a cough at the end. Jim presses his cheek in concern. “Hush, now. Lay still.” Sebastian falls back on the pillows, shutting his eyes again. The next breath he draws is smooth.

Jim sets down the sword and the bucket, and takes a seat beside him on the bed. He runs a hand over his face, ignoring the red smear it leaves behind.

 _I’ll go open the windows in a minute,_ he thinks, yawning. _Get this smell out of here. I’ll tell the princes’ parents that he’s alright…._

Sleep twines fingers in Jim’s hair and tugs him down towards the bed beside Sebastian. His head goes muzzy, thoughts losing cohesion. It’s entirely dissimilar to the sudden unconsciousness of exhaustion. When Jim hasn’t slept for a week and suddenly wakes up sixteen hours later, with a taste in his mouth like a dead rat, he usually doesn’t remember falling asleep.

_Is this what it’s like?_

_I’m the king of Shadows – I’m the spider in the center of the web – and I **do – not – sleep –**_

With an effort, Jim jerks himself back awake. He can feel the snap of the ‘right’ sequence of events breaking, like a neck between his hands.

\----------

Sebastian wakes up to Jim, still covered in filth, sitting calmly at his bedside with a knife to his throat.

“Good _morning,_ Sunshine,” Jim says, with an ice-cold smile. Sebastian stays very still.

“You did it again,” he murmurs in awe, staring up at Jim.

“Get used to surprises.” Jim widens his smile, baring his teeth so Sebastian knows he’s not being friendly. “I figure we have about ten minutes, what about you?” Sebastian opens his mouth. “Nevermind, _chaaaaanged_ my mind, don’t answer that.” Jim watches Sebastian’s face, piecing together his heart from his wrinkles and scars.

“You’re a soldier, aren’t you? Now, Goldilocks, I don’t plan to keep playing someone else’s game. _I’m_ going to find something a bit more interesting to do than follow along while someone else reads.”

Sebastian frowns. “You’re going to try and get free.”

“Aren’t _you_ sharp?”

“It can’t be done.” Sebastian shakes his head, nearly nicking himself on the point of Jim’s blade. He bites his lip – _nervous habit? Twitch? –_ and the pink skin dents invitingly inwards. “I’ve tried, I…”

“To be fair to everyone with an IQ above _ten,_ though, _darling,_ you didn’t even know we could change the _endings._ ” Jim presses the sword a little tighter to Sebastian’s throat. It rasps on his stubble when he swallows. “I’m not like you, Sebastian. Don’t ever think I am. Don’t ever confuse us as equals. You’re a run of the mill _Tin Soldier._ I run a criminal empire from here to China.”

Sebastian snorts – glaring defiance down the length of steel between them. His eyes are narrow and hard, but his pupils are blown – defying him to lie. His nostrils flare as his breath picks up. _Adrenaline._ The expression makes Sebastian look like a cornered jungle cat, a caged beast pacing the bars. Looking for more. _Is that fear, or are you just pleased to see me?_

“An opium smuggler, then.”

“What?” Jim laughs. “No. Who smuggles _heroin?_ No. Don’t be obvious. Well. I _do_ a liiiiiiittle with heroin. But China’s mostly tech. Just skimming my way along the iPhone factory line. _How much can I destabilise the yuan before someone notices,_ that sort of thing.”

“iPhone?” Sebastian blinks, losing that darling mix of craving fear that momentarily transformed his face into something very interesting. “Tech? From China? What the hell are you talking about?”

Jim stares at him. Sebastian stares blankly back. The point of Jim’s sword wavers against Sebastian’s throat. “How did you get _in_ here?”

“Sherlock sent me.”

Jim pulls the sword away entirely in shock. “ _Sherlock’s_ an Aberrant?”

“Yeah. It was – shit, must have been back in ‘84, I had just come home from the war in Afghanistan, and he found me bumming around. Said he couldn’t deal with _two_ dangerous men in London, and I could use a moral education.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“You know him? Git. It was just after the Clan na Gael blew up the Underground, but apparently the royal bitch Victoria’s favorite fucking city needed saving from _me._ ”

Jim suddenly doesn’t feel like he’s sitting down enough to deal with this. “Victoria.” He knows he’s repeating Sebastian, but he can’t help himself.

Sebastian looks at Jim like Jim belongs in a padded room. “You know someone else that’s Queen?”

\----------

 


	4. Sedna, the Goddess of the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many different versions of Sedna's story, like there's many First Nations peoples in the Canadian arctic: [ this ](http://voices.yahoo.com/understanding-moral-behind-inuit-goddess-sedna-646570.html) provides a summary of some different versions. The one I used is from "Favorite Folk Tales from Around the World."

Jim had never seen such diamonds. Even the crown jewels of England don’t compare. Sebastian lays them at his feet, pile after pile, glittering and cold at perfect.

“For your future,” he says, with a self-satisfied smile.

Jim’s breath catches. His fingers twitch. They can’t be real; diamonds don’t grow so large, so flawlessly sparkling. But there they are.

“Only say you’ll marry me,” Sebastian continues, “And come with me to the land of birds, where there is never hunger and my tent is made of diamonds like these. You will rest on bearskins, and your lamp will always be filled with the cleanest oil, and you will never want for anything…”

There have been others seeking to gain Jim's hand; but they've all been lean men, just as poor and starved as he is. Jim reaches out and runs a single finger down the corner of one facet, the edge so sharp he thinks for a second it will cut him. The stone is as cold as the snow outside. The air smells of frost, and gore from the seals his father has slaughtered. Sebastian bows his head, light catching in his golden hair. He carries an ivory spear, smooth and shining like moonstones.

“You will never go hungry,” Sebastian promises.

It is the seventh month from summer and the sun will not rise again for six months more. Jim takes a deep breath, feeling ice in his lungs. _You can’t trust him,_ Jim tells himself, _this man with the blonde hair and tanned skin and clean white scars. You can’t trust anybody._

Jim has poison for fingers. Everything he touches withers and dies. He is a monster. He is incapable of human interaction on a scale that concerns anything except murder.

He feels himself nod anyways.

\------------

Jim’s father kisses his cheeks and hands him into Sebastian’s canoe. Sebastian smiles, a low tight compression of his lips that doesn’t seem friendly at all. He dips his paddle into the freezing water, breaking the black surface with barely more than a ripple, and pushes them off shore. Clouds hang overhead, heavy and threatening. The world is monochrome; black water, grey sky, white snow. Flakes begin to fall as the shore disappears into the distance. Jim tilts his head back, feeling his nose cool until it begins to ache. On the shore his father is watching, one hand raised in farewell. He dwindles, growing smaller.

Jim shuts his eyes. Cool snowflakes fall on his lashes. In his chest, there’s a tentative hope – a land where the tents are made of diamonds and no one ever goes hungry.

“It’s not a happy story,” Sebastian says.

Jim’s eyes snap open.

Sebastian grimaces at him, teeth gritted and jaw tense with the effort of speaking. His lips are clamped shut, holding back anything that might follow. _Well, well._ Jim favours him with a grin. “Not easy, is it?”

Sebastian shakes his head mutely.

\------------

The shore, if it were visible, would be little more than an indifferent smudge on the horizon. The snow is falling fast and thick, now. It’s hard to see anything more than twenty feet away. Jim wraps himself tighter in his furs and hunkers down in the belly of the canoe.

There’s a clatter as Sebastian drops his paddle, flicking water over the bottom of the boat. They drift aimlessly on the surface of the waves. Jim turns, brow furrowing. “What…”

Sebastian raises his hands. He wears only a thin leather vest, leaving his goose-bumped arms bare to the wind. As Jim watches, the bumps on his skin seem to shift and move. Jim’s mouth opens, round on another question, but before he can get it out he sees black feathers begin to force their way outwards through Sebastian’s skin.

Sebastian’s face is set in a rictus – Jim recognizes the expression, from men being burnt alive. A grunt forces its way out of Sebastian’s throat, a horrible thing, guttural and pained. The feathers spread and grow, coating his arms. There’s a brief moment where Sebastian is human, entirely human, except for the great spreading flare of loon’s wings. Grey and black and white feathers, in patterns so crisp and neat they look like they were painted on. His pinons flare twenty feet – no, thirty feet wide, wingtips splayed frosty white against the snowstorm.

Jim gasps, the soft sound lost in wind as soon as it breaks his lips. Then Sebastian’s neck twists, unnaturally quick, as new vertebrae force themselves to grow inside his spine. His face lengthens, hardening into a beak.

 _Well fuck **this,** _ Jim thinks, casting off his furs. He scrambles for the side of the canoe, the paddle, a hunter’s knife – anything. There’s nothing. Jim crowds to the side of the boat, making it rock in the water, and turns back. His hair and shoulders soak with snow in seconds, and then freeze into a crusty shell over his neck and back.

He feels a scream brewing in his stomach, and chokes it down.

The massive bird on the other side of the canoe cocks its head at him; Sebastian’s blue eyes incongruous in the grey, feathered face.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Jim hisses.

The bird beats its wings, a loud clap sounding as the air caught in them rebounds off the water. It surges forwards, scooping Jim onto its back, and then – with a dizzying lurch – they take to the sky.

Jim grabs two handfuls of feathers, purposefully hard. Soft down pulls out beneath his fingers, and he prays to _God_ that it hurts. With each beat of the loon’s wings he’s rocked forwards and backwards on its back. Jim squeezes himself as small as possible, huddling over the loon’s shoulder blades, and tries hard not to think about falling. The strokes of Sebastian’s wings jolt Jim hard forward, and the sway of the bird’s back in flight threatens to send him sliding off backwards. The sea falls away beneath them, hard and black and unforgiving as stone.

Wind whips at Jim’s eyes, stinging tears out the corners.

 _I can buy **helicopters** , _Jim thinks, _Jet planes, for fuck’s sake. When I get back I’m building an air force._

\------------

Sebastian lands on a cold, barren rock, in the middle of the unforgiving sea. Wind scours the barren stone, buffeting a single ragged tent made of badly-stitched leather. Gulls overhead cry out mournfully to the sea. Jim turns a slow circle. There’s nothing else. The horizon is empty, except for the snow and the storm.

There’s a cracking, wrenching noise beside him as Sebastian changes back into a man.

Jim looks at him, and arches his eyebrows. “Ex _cuse_ me,” he drawls, taking some liberties with what the story thinks he’s supposed to say, “But what the _fuck_ is this?”

Sebastian looks away, biting his lip. The wind howls around them, biting exposed flesh with vicious glee. Sebastian's bare forearms turn pink as blood rushes to the surface. “My home.”

“You promised me _diamonds._ ”

“I know.” Sebastian reaches towards Jim, fingers outstretched. Jim stares at his hand – _I fucking dare you_ – and Seb lets it fall back to his side. His fists clench. “I had to say something,” he pleads. “I love you. I had to promise…”

“What,” Jim asks patiently, slow and dangerous, “Have you done?”

Sebastian has no answer.

\------------

There is nothing to eat but strained sea-water and the fish Sebastian brings him. Jim’s stomach is gnawed by grasping, biting hunger. He curls resentfully in the ill-cured furs of the tent, which always seems to reek of burning fat and rotten hide. Sebastian comes each day to kneel at his feet and plead, but Jim won’t speak to him. He turns his face away.

 _I was a King,_ Jim reminds himself, shuddering in the freezing cold nights. _I was a King._

It seems far away now.

\------------

Three months pass. The winter storms reach their peak.

Inside the drafty, freezing tent, Jim watches his fingers turn blue by oil light. He lies with his face to the fire. When he shuts his eyes, his eyelashes freeze to his cheeks and he can’t open them again. Bitterness twines with hunger in his stomach, making his breath acidic and foul.

 _If I get out of here,_ Jim promises himself, _I’ll loot the Louvre for a bonfire. We could be burning paintings for months. I’ll never be cold again._

In the darkest part of the night, Sebastian comes. He lies himself down beside Jim, solid chest hot against Jim’s freezing back. Jim has no choice. He twists under the furs, clutching at Sebastian, burrowing himself as close as he can to the heat of Sebastian’s body. Hot, angry tears melt the ice on his lashes. His fists clench in Sebastian’s rough furs, pricking at his palms.

Someone is whimpering, soft and helpless and filled with despair.

It might be Jim.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian mouths into his hair, “Oh, forgive me, I am _sorry._ ”

Jim hates him horribly. He'll boil Sebastian alive if it's the last thing he ever does.

\------------

When summer returns the sea goes calm and Jim’s father comes to visit. Jim meets him on the shore – _the story calls for joyfully, but double **nope** , darling, I’m not celebrating this crap – _ and immediately demands, “Take me away from here.”

Jim’s father lifts him from the cold rocks of the island and sets him in a canoe, wrapping him tight in furs.

Jim hears the echo of Sebastian’s whisper, and although the story doesn’t call for guilt, he wishes he had his phone.

_Leaving. Call me when you have a real house, pet. -JMXO_

\------------

When they are close enough to home that Jim can see the plume of smoke from their village, rising on the horizon, he hears the cry of a loon. His heart goes still.

_No, I’m not going back, no –_

Jim’s father shoves his head brusquely under the furs, hiding him. Jim tugs them tight around him, scowling. They smell of musk and bear-fat. All sounds from the world outside are muffled, penetrating only dimly through the thick soft cuccoon. His breath heats the small cave of blankets around him, and what oxygen isn’t sucked up in his lungs goes stale. Wing beats sound over the water, and the mournful call of the loon. Jim peers into the darkness of the furs, and can see nothing.

“Let me see him.” Sebastian’s voice.

“No.” Jim’s father.

“Jim,” Sebastian cries, “Please! Come back with me. No one can love you as much as I do. It was not a good life, but it could be better. _I_ can be better.”

Jim’s stomach growls in hunger, and he says nothing; staying still beneath the furs. His world has narrowed until it’s nothing but that dark, ill-smelling cave. Soft rabbits’ fur clenched in his fists. Prickly bear fur rubbing against his cheeks. Jim shuts his eyes. His stomach eats its way out from the inside.

_I can’t, darling, I won’t starve again. Not even for you. -JMXO_

The wing beats overhead grow louder, closer. Sebastian must be just above them, now. His call echoes out over the waves, mournful and lonely. Jim’s chest lurches in sympathy. Then there’s a whistle of air, and a great crash of water thrown up into the sky. Jim has a moment of calm to wonder, a moment when the sea and the sky and the whole world is still.

_He must have thrown himself –_

But that’s as far as Jim gets.

The sky opens in a torrent. Jim can hear it drum on the furs, and then it soaks through them; icy water trickling down over the back of his neck. The canoe begins to dip and surge, as the waves swell; larger and larger, until the furs are thrown bodily overboard by the force of it. They tower over the boat, breaking over the bow in each trough. Jim clutches at the sides of the canoe as he's thrown into the light outside his cave. On the crest of each wave, he can see past the unnatural storm to a circle of calm, twenty feet away, where all around them the water is calm and flat as a mirror. Rain like icicles lashes his cheeks, the salt-spray so thick it’s almost hard to breathe. His father shouts something, but Jim can’t hear over the storm. He pushes himself into a crouch. The waves roil in a tight circle around them, thunderclouds spiralling upwards directly overhead. Lightning arcs between them, the claps of thunder so loud and instant they sound like gunshots. Jim claps both hands over his ears.

No matter where he looks, even at the top of the waves, he can’t see Sebastian.

_So he did throw himself in. Stupid emotional **child.**_

A mittened hand grips his shoulder and spins him back from the sea. Jim stares up into the face of his father; frenzied and twisted in fear. He recognizes the expression, mostly from his more incompetent employees. Jim’s father hauls him to the side of the boat. Jim scrambles at his shoulders – at the corded muscles of his arm – at the tight leather grip of his mitten. He digs his fingers in, clawing bloody circles out of the thin bad of exposed skin over his father's wrists. It doesn't matter.

There had been a bodyguard, once, that wanted Jim to take self-defense courses.

 _Just enough to break a grip or throw someone,_ Jim remembers the man pleading, _Anything, Boss, just in case._

 _Nobody touches me,_ the arrogant Shadow King purred back. _And no one ever will._

Jim feels himself bent backwards over the raging water. He claws at his father’s hands, snarling, fighting with venomous fury. _Damned_ if he’ll be thrown overboard, _damned_ if he’ll drown just for that stupid, _lying_ Sebastian –

His spine arcs over the sea, waves stretching up to lick the small of his back. His boots knock against the hull of the canoe. Jim’s neck strains, the muscles in his shoulders aching as he clings to his father with a death-grip, refusing to be drowned. He can feel the pull of the fairy tale ending – _let go. Give up. Drift under the waves._

His father draws a knife. Jim’s weakening muscles twitch, and he bites hard down on his tongue. Blood plumes in his mouth, copper and real, steadying him. But he can’t help letting go when the blade bites into his hands. Four fingers sever, screaming pain igniting Jim’s mind like a forest fire. It blanks out everything else – every instinct to live, every thought in his head. Even the smell and roar of the sea dims. It’s like his arm has been severed. It’s like his hand is gone entirely. How could he hold on? The end of Jim’s arm is nothing but an explosion of agony, bright and hot and devouring.

His father, face still contorted with terror, pushes him back into the waves. They close over his head with a shock of cold so intense it compresses Jim’s chest, driving a sharp burst of air from his lungs. He watches it float upwards above him in a deceptively peaceful bubble. Something rushes past from the deep, surfacing in an streamlined explosion of salt and ocean-mist.

Jim floats upwards more slowly, chasing the bubble of his life's breath, stretching for the edge of canoe in desperation. He hauls his shoulders out of the water, pulling the boat down towards him.

There’s a bright flash of silver. His father’s knife, leaping downwards for his fingers curled around the hull. Jim can see Sebastian’s shadow just dimly over his father's shoulder, the vast spread of wings as Sebastian leaps forward for the weapon. Underneath Jim, his four already severed fingers have begun to stretch and change. Pale skin in the water is growing darker, thick trails of blood forming into sold shapes. In a glimpse, before he squeezes his eyes shut, Jim thinks he might see seals.

He gasps for air while he can get it, choking down a mix of spray and oxygen that isn’t nearly enough to ease his screaming lungs. His hands fist tight around the leather of the hull, buffeted and tossed about on the storm.

_Brace – Maybe Sebastian will get there in time –_

He doesn’t.

And bracing isn’t enough.

Jim's other hand disappears in a rush of pure white pain, like a brand on the inside of his skull, like he’s shoved his arm elbow-deep in acid. His scream is choked off by water as he falls back under the waves.

\------------

In the storm Jim misses his father’s body, sinking down beside him with a knife shoved up through his jaw. The next time he surfaces, Sebastian is flying a tight holding pattern; looking for Jim. Jim crawls through the water to the side of the boat, hands bloody and freezing. “ _I trusted you!_ ” he screams upwards. Cold water curls around his legs and he thrashes, over-balancing the canoe as he tries desperately to haul himself back out of the deathly cold sea. “ _I trusted you!_ ”

Sebastian’s wings flap, a great gust of air frothing the water into waves and turning the tears on Jim’s face into icicles. “Jim – “

He lands on the opposite side of the canoe and it rocks back out of the water, half knocking Jim off. Jim scrambles at the slick leather, mutilated palms tractionless. He feels himself start to slide back into the water. A seal brushes against his legs – _blood-of-his-blood_ – calling him down into the deeps. A desperate, manic terror fills him.

_Down in the dark, there, forever, with nothing but my broken hands and sea creatures?_

_No – no – **no** – **NO** –_

But he’s going to slide off the deep end anyways. Jim laughs, manic and bubbling in his chest. It comes out racking, and tasting of salt. _Always knew I’d drown. Only, you know, it was **supposed** to be inside my own head and not in the fucking **Arctic Ocean** – _

His kicking feet beat the waves to foam. Salty sea water stings in his eyes, scraping the inside of his throat like sandpaper as it crests over his head. His arms ache, muscles weakening without the grip of hands to ease the stress. No matter how much he clutches at nothing, Jim can feel himself begin to slip.

The sea closes over his head. His lungs, desperate already with the effort of staying afloat, start to burn. Without even gasps of air between swells –

Jim’s body goes still and noncompliant, dying without struggle . Deeper, deeper. Underneath him, in the pitch-black depths, the corpse of his father drifts lazily. The current combs through his hair, spreading the strands out like seaweed. Jim screams, silent and never-ending. He kicks his stubborn body, jerks his frozen arms.

_Move – struggle – live –_

It doesn’t matter. He’s dying. Jim feels his shoulders slump, slack and tensionless. He opens his mouth to take a breath of seawater, and end it.

Two hands clutch about his wrists and haul him up out into the canoe.

Jim’s head breaks the surface of the surface and he gulps down oxygen instead of water, painful as hell on the lacerated skin of his throat. It doesn’t matter. He sucks air in greedily, feeling himself limply deposited in the bottom of the boat. His shoulders rack as he coughs out what feels like half the Arctic Ocean.

The shade of Sebastian’s wings blocks out the sky, but it’s bright anyways. Jim squints up at him, sea-water blurring the world to diamond facets. Sebastian is staring down at his fingers.

Which are, just barely, starting to glow.

_We can change little things. A few words. A tone of voice._

Sebastian looks at Jim, expression loose in shock.

_The point. The Moral. He changed the –_

There’s a rush in Jim’s ears, like hope. “…Sebas… ?”

 


	5. Aladdin (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Self Injury/Cutting. Please take this warning seriously, and ask if you would like to read a version of the chapter without it. <3
> 
> The original version of Aladdin, from [ link ](http://www.fpx.de/fp/Disney/Tales/Aladdin.html).

Jim sits in the dark, in the quiet, and worries Sebastian in his mind like a dog worries a rat. The light in Sebastian’s fingers niggles at the back of Jim’s cortex, a tiny spark of hope quavering and flickering like candle-light. The carriage rocks around him, wheels rumbling over the uneven stone outside the palace.

_How?_

1884, Sebastian said. The laws against Aberrants were on the books, then, but less strictly enforced. Empress Tsu-Hsi had been Sent. Ahmed ‘Urabi. Jim shuts his eyes and goes padding through the ruined sprawl of his mind, searching for the yellowed papers and splotched ink that detail Britain’s colonial conquests. Opium shipments. The war in Egypt.

_Useful, if he’s even from my world._

And unless _Sherlock_ has hanging around Sending people since the Victorian age, Jim doubts it. He sighs, fingering a strand of creamy pearls around his neck. The close curtains of his carriage block out the light, casting everything in smooth velvet shadow. Outside, the market smells of spice and musk, thick on the air underneath the scent of sweet summer oranges. The day is ending, and the sunset is hot and humid. Jim’s breath clouds under his veil, the transparent fabric over his face catching the heat of his exhale. It simmers, choking him, and he draws the gauze aside to take a relieved lungful of fresh air.

Jim thinks of Sebastian, tawny smile and puckered, scarred skin. The glowing tips of his fingers. The wide, horrified eyes. _What am I going to do with you, pet?_

Jim’s carriage rumbles to a halt at the doors of the bathhouse and a slave hops from the front seat, coming around to open the door. Jim ducks his face, because even though _he_ thinks it would be funny to see the man have his eyes put out with hot pokers, the story doesn’t call for a cruel and unusual princess. In the small crack of light between the door of the bathhouse and the alley-way, there’s a shadow. Jim catches a pair of dirty slippers and glances up to meet a sneaking glint of eyes, staring at him with familiar intensity. Blue eyes, like ice.

Jim gives Sebastian a fleeting hint of teeth and turns away, sweeping through the entrance in a rustle of stiff silk and a metallic chime of jewelry. The rings on Jim’s fingers are stiff and restrictive. He twitches his hands, trying to maintain feeling. A bustle of slaves crowds around him. The stone halls of the bathhouse are cool and deserted, reserved for his use. The setting sun casts long shadows over the pristine white floors.

_Come and get me._

A dark shape in the alleyway pushes free of the door and slinks away, out into the dust and the heat of the market.

\--------------

Sometimes, when there’s nothing challenging to do, Jim’s brain buzzes like a swarm of angry hornets. He can feel it in his shoulders, in his chest, relentless and tight. _Get up. Move. Do **something, anything, do it NOW, DO IT NOW –**_

Those are the days when he blows up buildings. Those are the days when he sits in front of his desk with a dull razor blade filched from the shop down at the end of Conduit Street. He could pay for them, but it’s the ritual that matters; the shop girl has blonde hair like silk, and he leans over the counter to run it through his fingers, flirting. His other hand slips the plastic packaging into his pocket – always the left pocket, always the blue jeans with the torn hems that fold under his heels. He buys a diet soda and throws it out in the bin across the way.

The buzzing in his brain dies down at that point, quieted by the knowledge that he’s doing something.

He pours himself a scotch when he gets to his office – no matter what time of day it is, part of the ritual is three fingers of Talisker. Jim sets it square on the desk in front of him, pulls the razor blades out of his left-hand pocket. He claws the package open with his fingernails, and if he cuts himself doing it, what little blood and pain there is means nothing.

The blades warm up under his fingers; there’s a _smell_ to it, hot cheap metal and salt, like a projector over-heating. Guns don’t smell like that. Neither do knives, even sunk through someone’s throat and messy with gore.

Jim clamps the blade hard along the line of his index finger, using his thumb to press it into the flesh above his elbow. He rolls his t-shirt up for the purpose, but it ends up stained anyways. His soft white skin dents, resisting, then gives – all in a rush, splitting, revealing the oily bubbly fat underneath. Cuts open on Jim’s skin like eyes, widening as the razor rips through his flesh.

The loudness in his mind goes quiet; goes still. There’s a popping sound as his skin resists and he forces the blade through it anyways in a catching, stuttering jerk.

All of him is present; this is the point of the ritual. The buzzing, pressing insanity surges out of his cuts even before they begin to bleed. In the shocked moment before blood can bubble to the surface, Jim feels his insanity drain and is still. He does his best thinking in that stillness, feels his mind move like cold machinery without the sand of emotion in the gears.

This is the state of mind Jim likes the most.

It is also the state of mind that crashes down around him when he lifts his veil at the altar, in his fairy-tale world, and sees a stranger staring back.

Prince Charming is not Sebastian. Prince Charming is a stranger with full lips and almond eyes and a hooked nose.

In the silence of Jim’s mind, gears begin to turn.

_How am I going to fix **that?**_

\---------------------

Not for the first time since the electric shock of Mycroft’s hands, Jim goes to bed with a stranger. But this time is difference. The stranger looks at him with lecherous eyes, pupils blown. He licks his chapped lips, reaching for Jim with soft, perfumed hands.

Jim remembers how Sebastian had fought himself; the tension of Sebastian’s palms on Jim’s skin, every muscle desperate to pull away. The way Sebastian’s eyes slid to the side, unable to watch them together.

Clammy hands touch Jim’s ribs, over the crisp velvet of his wedding robes. Without thinking, Jim snaps, “ _Off_ me, or next time you pull back _stubs._ ”

He’s not sure who’s more surprised; him or his new ‘husband.’ The man recoils, mouth opening and shutting like a fish flopping on the shore. Jim recovers first. He sneers, staring down his nose at the askew laces on his husband’s shirt. The man’s trousers are tented, embroidered fabric pressed against his wilting erection. Jim’s spit tastes acidic with disgust. He gathers his robes around him, crosses his arms, and points with his chin at the opposite side of their marriage bed.

“You go sit over there, _husband,_ and maybe you’ll live through the night.” The poor man shuffles his way back across the bed sheets, blinking owlishly at Jim. Jim feels his lips tighten. There’s a buzzing in the back of his skull. _Do something. Anything. Where is Sebastian? What has that **idiot**_ _done? Did they separate us? Do something. Do something. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it fix it fix it **fix it fix it fix it-**_

Jim takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. Between gritted teeth he grinds out, “ _Stay_ ,” and hopes to god the man will listen.

_I’ll kill myself if he touches me._

_And Sebastian._

_For not making it in time._

\-----------------

Jim’s eyelids slump downwards, his vision dizzy and spotted from exhaustion. He can’t stay with one thought long enough to make a plan of escape. His shoulders are loose and hanging, muscles sore from keeping them straight. Every time his head sags towards his chest his heart kicks into overdrive. Adrenaline shoves him back awake just in time to catch his _husband_ creeping across the bed. Jim shifts on the headboard, positioning himself so an uncomfortable knob juts into his spine. The pain is enough to keep him conscious.

For approximately fifteen minutes.

Jim’s head lolls forward. His eyes sink shut. The world falls into blackness.

**_NO –_ **

Eyes open. Limbs jerking. The stranger in Jim’s bed caught mid-motion, hand stretched out for Jim’s thigh. Jim snarls, and uses up valuable reserves of energy to slam his toe up into his husband’s chin. The man’s jaw shuts with a sharp _click –_ followed by a scream, as he spits blood and the end of his tongue out over the bed. Jim collapses back against the headboard, making the bed shift and creak. He shoves his heels hard against the sheets and uses the strength of his legs to push him backwards, a few precious inches away.

“Don’t come _near_ me,” Jim hisses.

But it’s only a matter of time.

\-----------------

Jim’s chin hits his chest.

\-----------------

His eyes open, the pressure of someone’s grip tight around his ankle. Jim’s hands are already reflexively raised and curled into claws. His fingernails scratch forwards, intending to gouge out the eyes of whoever’s grabbed him.

Blue eyes, the left bisected by a wide line of scar tissue.

Jim halts mid motion, taking in Sebastian’s raised eyebrow. He drops one hand to the sheets over his stomach and uses the other to wipe gritty sleep from his tear-ducts.

“Princess,” Sebastian chides.

“You _idiot_ ,” Jim spits back, yanking his ankle away. “You _idiot._ ”

Sebastian turns his head to the side. Jim follows his gaze, and swallows hard. They’re in an unfamiliar room, low ceilinged and smoky; not Jim’s opulent chambers in the palace. A man hovers at the foot of the bed, one hand possessively curled over the shoulder of Jim’s husband; although the term _man_ could be used loosely. The _thing_ holding Jim’s husband has blue skin like ink from a broken pen, raised lines of black spiralling over its skin. They trace its brow in intricate patterns, down its bare stomach to the cloth tied around its waist. It smells of ozone and hot metal, like a projector overheating. Like a razor blade between Jims fingers. Reflected light from a candle at Jim’s bedside shines wetly in its black-within-black eyes.

"Take this new-married man," Sebastian says, "and put him outside in the cold, and return at daybreak."

The things head inclines, slowly, and then creature and husband disappear. Sebastian turns back to Jim.

"Fear nothing," Sebastian tells Jim, "You are my wife, promised to me by your unjust father, and no harm will come to you."

Jim rolls his eyes. “ _Stop_ it. Do away with the fucking script. If I can, you can. You’re not really _that_ hopeless, are you?”

Sebastian’s jaw shifts as his teeth grind. Jim waits patiently for an answer. For all of three seconds.

“Come _on,_ pet. I’m not waiting all night.”

“ _Fuck._ Demanding.”

“Don’t _complain_ to me, darling, I woke up in bed with a strange man and I'm not exactly _pleased_ with you right now.”

“How exactly is who you wake up with my problem?”

Jim feels a tight surge of anger cut through the thrumming agitation in his chest. He leans forward, snatching Sebastian’s chin between two fingers, and tightens his grip until he can feel the bones of Sebastian’s jaw shift. “ _Listen good,_ ” Jim purrs, soft and promising just to watch Sebastian lean in after the sound of his voice. “After _last_ time, I think we agree that _you_ have some questions to answer. If you don’t want those questions to be _creatively_ unpleasant, I think _make-Daddy-happy_ is your new top priority. Don’t you?”

He shoves Sebastian’s face away from him.

Sebastian falls backwards, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Between his fingers Jim can see round, dark bruises start to form.

“Alright,” Sebastian grimaces, finally. “ _Fine._ I don’t know what the hell happened last time. I’m not Aberrant. I never have been. Alright? I was just –“

He falls silent. Jim’s foot taps against the mussed sheets. “You were just _what._ ”

“I was thinking about _saving you,_ ” Sebastian shoots back, face flushing hotly.

“ _Adorable,_ ” Jim drawls. The red on Sebastian’s face deepens. Poor thing. Jim can’t help grinning, watching the bulky, heavily muscled soldier scowl and look away like a school girl being questioned about her crush. “Now how does that help me?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t.” Sebastian licks his lips, sucking the bottom one in over his teeth. Jim watches the pink skin tent downwards in fascination. “This is getting easier, though. Improvising.”

“Good.” Jim leans back against the headboard, feeling the darkness of exhaustion tug at the corners of his mind. “Keep up with _that_ and maybe in a hundred years you won’t be an utter waste of my time.”

His neck starts to droop. The bed underneath him is warmed by his body heat, soft and inviting. The last thing he hears is Sebastian’s familiar voice –

“Get some sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

_I can watch over myself._

\-----------------

Jim is awakened by his gilded bedroom door creaking open. He blinks and sits up, rubbing his eyes. Back in his own room; the chandeliers overhead glitter in the morning sun, reflecting light onto the tapestries. His father’s long nose is just visible, wart on the end peeking through the crack as the door wheezes open on its hinges.

There’s a clatter, the bed dipping as Jim’s husband scrambles away from his side. Jim shoots him a look – the deep, baggy bruises under the man’s eyes proclaim loudly that he hasn’t slept. Jim grins to himself. Jim’s husband wrings his hands as he presses himself back against the tapestried walls, shoulders shoved up high against his ears. His eyes dart around the room, rat-like, searching for the sheen of blue skin or the glint of Sebastian’s teeth.

The Sultan opens the door all the way. Jim gathers the blankets regally up around himself, raises his eyebrows, and waits.

“Princess,” The Sultan starts, “How passed your marriage night?”

 _Well, I don’t know,_ Jim thinks, though he cannot speak, _My husband doesn’t seem too enthused. Maybe it’s my morning breath?_

The Sultan frowns. Underneath his turban, his thick dark brows knit – digging the diamond between them into his flesh. His jowls quiver in agitation, which sets Jim to internally giggling. “Won’t you speak to me, child?”

Jim opens his eyes as wide as they can go and flutters his lashes at his father. The Sultan frowns, smacking his palm against his wide, flabby stomach. “Hm.” Rings on his fingers cut deep into his bones, his fingers grown fat underneath them until they can no longer be removed. “Maybe your mother can make sense of this. I’ll send her immediately to talk sense into you.” The Sultan peers nearsightedly into the room. “And where the devil is the Vizier’s son?”

Jim hears his husband whimper, and sighs in delight. The Sultan, taken aback, stares at the wretched man pushed as far from Jim as he can get into the wall. The Sultan opens his mouth to demand an explanation but before he can the Vizier’s son squeaks a high-pitched apology and scrambles for the door, sending the Sultan rocking backwards in his haste to escape. Jim watches his husband disappear down the hallway and tugs his blankets up a little further over his chest.

“I’ll send your mother,” the Sultan repeats hesitantly, clearly at a loss. Jim gazes at him innocently, making his face as mock wide and vapid as possible.

_Poor little innocent me, my husband’s terrified. Whatever will I do?_

\-----------------

Jim’s mother is a slender, graceful woman, with a long neck and a gaunt face. She folds her hands in her lap and looks down her narrow nose at Jim, steam rising from the cup of tea on the low table in front of her. Vapours trace over the massive sapphires dangling from her earlobes.

"How comes it, child, that you will not speak to your father?” she asks, her voice clipped and severe. “What has happened to make you disobey so?"

Jim raises his own cup of tea to his lips and smiles dazzlingly at her, saying nothing. Outside the window the sun is setting, and the air smells once again of oranges and spice from the markets. Somewhere out there in the gathering darkness, Sebastian is coming for him. Jim can’t stop grinning to himself about that – picturing Sebastian cursing himself, struggling against it, and coming anyways.

Because of course he will.

“Speak,” the Sultan’s Queen commands.

Jim takes a sip of tea that burns the roof of his mouth and sets his cup back down on the table. The liquid is too hot for flavour. He runs his tongue over the painful spot, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he drawls.

The Queen frowns and gestures liquidly with one slender hand. Around her bony wrists are tiny golden chains, rubies set between the links. “Speak,” she repeats, her tone softer.

“Well, okay, then.” Jim smiles at her again, letting his eyes half close so his lashes blur vision into darkness. Like the sun has already set. “During the night my bed was magically transported into the house of someone who wants me _badly,_ and he terrified my husband. Using a djinn, I think. Well, I wouldn’t know – I’ve never _seen_ a djinn. Don’t they not exist? Funny how fictional creatures have become part of my life so quickly.” He lets his eyes shut entirely, tongue probing at his burn. A layer of skin is sloughing off into his mouth, like the skin of an onion. Jim leans forward and spits it neatly into the Queen’s tea.

She doesn’t react.

“I do not believe you in the least,” the Queen says calmly, swaying up from her seat. She draws her veil back over her face, chains about her wrists sparkling in the dying sun. “Tell no more tales of idle dreams, and treat your husband as he deserves.”

“Will I _ever,_ ” Jim quips, watching her go. He wraps his hands tight around his mug of tea, even though it makes his palms heat painfully.

He’s thinking of Sebastian again, wondering, worrying blue eyes like a burn on the end of his tongue.

\-----------------

After the Vizier’s son finishes at court he comes back to Jim’s lavish bedroom. He hesitates by the foot of the bed with his fingers poised at his collar, like he’s debating whether or not to get undressed.

_On the con side, murderous djinn. On the plus side –_

Jim sees his husband’s eyes slide down the blankets, ending up glued somewhere in the vicinity of Jim’s groin. Jim rolls his eyes.

“Get on the bed,” he snaps.

Mistaking Jim’s quickness for enthusiasm, the quailing man straightens excitedly and undoes his first button.

“By all means,” Jim sniffs, sending an insulting look down at the bulge starting in his husband’s trousers, “If you want me to _cut it off._ ” The Vizier’s son wilts visibly, and crawls up on the bed like a whipped dog. Jim folds his arms and tilts his head back against the headboard. The lamps, burning low on oil, flicker out one by one.

“ _Any_ time, Sebastian.”

\-----------------

“In a hundred years I might not be a waste of your time?” Sebastian barks, standing over the bed with a knife in his hand, nearly trembling in anger. “ _In a hundred years?_ _Fuck_ you.”

Jim is out of bed in a heartbeat, slamming them together chest to chest with his hand closed tight around Sebastian’s throat. “ _Careful,_ ” he sings. Sebastian’s blue eyes glare down at him for a tense heartbeat, then flick over to the djinn. At a quick nod from Sebastian, both the creature and Jim’s husband disappear – same as they had last night.

Sebastian gives his full attention back to Jim.

_Where it belongs._

“Remind me again which one of us is Aberrant here.” Sebastian’s throat presses against Jim’s palm, Adam’s apple bobbing as he speaks. Jim tightens his grip, putting pressure on Sebastian’s jugular to cut off his air supply.

“Remind me which of us couldn’t even think to add a few lines to the _ending_ without me.”

Sebastian’s face starts to go red as he loses oxygen. Jim can feel Sebastian’s muscles tense, unyielding under Jim’s touch, but he doesn’t struggle. Jim’s eyes slide down to Sebastian’s hands, balled in fists, still at his sides. “You know it just as well as I do,” he breathes. “You think I’m _special,_ pet. You think you need me. Or I’d have a broken spine, isn’t that right?”

There’s no answer. Jim looks back up and realizes rather belatedly he hasn’t given Sebastian enough air to speak. He relaxes his grip, just enough to hear the whistle of oxygen over Sebastian’s lips.

The room is dark, and there are deep shadows in Sebastian’s narrowed eyes. “Yes.”

The word is a whisper against Jim’s lips. He smiles, and Sebastian’s eyes flick closed like he’s facing execution. This close, it’s possible to make out his eyelashes: so fine and white as to be invisible otherwise. His scars pale as his mouth tightens, skin twisted and smooth like melted wax. On impulse, Jim leans forward and presses his mouth to Sebastian’s cheek, over the edge of that broken line of tissue, before he speaks.

“I _will_ get us out of here,” he purrs against Sebastian’s ear, breathy and low so Sebastian has to tip his head inwards, chasing the words. His muscles are still tense, violent action restrained just beneath the surface. Jim’s head feels light and dizzy, riding an adrenaline rush like he’s rutting up against a tiger instead of a man. If he misjudged Sebastian, the necessary mix of fear and fascination to control him… “I’ll get us out of here, and I’ll take you home to the twenty-first century with me, and I’ll send you to Sherlock and Mycroft with a gun in your hands like you can’t even imagine… My little soldier boy…”

Jim can feel the frustration and resentment curled in Sebastian from the way he quivers against Jim. Jim holds the soldier transfixed and helpless, exulting in the way Sebastian trembles on the edge between fascination and terror.

“ _Shadow King,_ ” Sebastian whispers, lips moving with only the barest brush of sound.

\-----------------

“If you will not _speak the truth,_ ” the Sultan roars, spraying out spit as he gestures wildly, “I will _have your head, insolent child!”_

Jim stands calmly in front of the throne, head craned back to stare up at the Sultan. He taps his slippered foot, wishing for a crisp suit and a pair of Givenchy Richelieus; shined and structured and flawless.

“I _am_ telling the truth for once,” he says mildly. “Just ask my husband.”

The Sultan gestures in disgusted dismissal. Jim bows his head, turning neatly on his heel. He pads softly off over the marble, robes swaying around him. When he gets home Jim’ll make Sebastian buy him a throne room. Something ostentatious, with hollow floors, so Jim’s footsteps will be loud and neat and unmistakeable.

_Then he’ll drag Mycroft in front of me in chains, and he’ll smile at me with his scar rucking up over his lip, and he’ll laugh that too-loud laugh as Mycroft begs for forgiveness –_

Jim wonders what Sebastian would look like in a Westwood, violence still simmering underneath the thin veneer of civility.

He adds it to his list of things he’ll find out, when they’re free.

\-----------------

Jim is told the Vizier’s son wishes to be separated from him. He is told their marriage was never consummated, and so does not have to be acknowledged. He is told another suitor has come, wealthy and more powerful than any bride could ever dream.

 _Hello, darling,_ he thinks, watching Sebastian ride his horse across the floor of the throne room. All in black on a black charger, Sebastian canters with the easy skill of someone born to it; urging his horse up the steps to the dais without pause. As he rides up in his saddle, rocking with the motion of his horse, his blonde hair blows back like wheat in the wind. His knuckles are white on the black reins, absolutely steady and motionless. The clatter of black hooves is loud in the stillness. Jim steps forward from the shadow of his father’s throne, and inclines his head. There are murmurs, in the Court; there are questions. Sebastian reins in with his mount almost snorting into the Sultan’s lap.

“I’ve come for what you promised me,” Sebastian says, and he never takes his eyes off Jim.

Jim steps forward without waiting for his father’s permission. Sebastian gathers the reins of his horse in one hand, and reaches out to Jim with the other. Jim takes it. Sebastian pulls him forward, then his fingers wrap around Jim’s wrist with startling force. The world lurches, Jim’s arm wrenching painfully in the socket of his shoulder. His vision blurs as Sebastian swings him into the air as easily as Jim would a small child, setting Jim on the pommel of the saddle.

Jim would complain, then, but when the horse shifts its weight to move his weight fits comfortably back into Sebastian’s chest. Sebastian’s thighs are warm and tense against his. One large arm curves around Jim’s waist, holding him in place, implacable as steel. It’s like being locked in a living cage. Jim leans his head back on Sebastian’s shoulder and looks down at the Sultan with half-closed eyes, letting his lashes blur out the world.

He can feel the rumble of Sebastian’s voice against his back.

“Next time you give something of mine to another,” Sebastian growls, finding a tighter grip on the reins, “I will not be so forgiving.”

Jim’s stomach twitches, roiling not altogether unpleasantly. The Sultan gapes up at them, at a loss for words. Sebastian wheels his horse in a tight circle on two hooves, sawing the reins in a single hand to make the charger rear back with consummate skill. The horse leaps down the stairs, and Jim is completely conscious of the picture they make together; in his court robes and jewellery, he must glitter like a star against Sebastian’s chest.

In the wake of their passing, the Court is shocked and silent. There’s a cool breeze on Jim’s face. He shuts his eyes.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to obey you completely,” Sebastian murmurs in his ear.

“Don’t be silly, pet. Of _course_ it does.”

\-----------------

“You were thinking about trying to save me,” Jim muses, pacing back and forth in front of a window in Sebastian’s palace. Around the stained glass, Sebastian’s walls are encrusted with rubies; far too large to exist in the real world, set in creamy, intricate gold. Jim thinks the palace is sort of _gaudy,_ personally, but then he’s not proposing to hire Sebastian as an interior decorator. “What else?”

“Nothing,” Sebastian admits resentfully, slouching back on a couch with his ankle crossed over his knee. Jim’s starting to recognize the posture as one of Sebastian’s own, passed from story to story. Sebastian holds out his fingernails to inspect; finding them manicured and perfect, he inserts one into his mouth and starts chewing on it. “I knew you were going to die. I knew you had to drown. I thought if _you_ could change things –“

“But the _point_ of a story, it should have been impossible, you should have known better than to bother, even – “

“Well I had to try, didn’t I.”

“No,” Jim snaps, whirling to stare at him. “You didn’t. You shouldn’t have. Why did you? It doesn’t make _sense._ ”

Sebastian glares defiantly back. “Because trying and failing was better than –“

“Better than _what_ ,” Jim interrupts, impatient, snapping his fingers under Sebastian’s nose. “And don’t bite your _nails,_ darling, it’s disgusting.Better than _what?_ Waiting another thirty seconds for us to respawn? Come on, now, you can do better than – “

“ _I couldn’t watch you die!”_

The shout is a loud slap of sound, like Sebastian’s laughter but infinitely more startling. Jim recoils, blinking.

He has just enough time to see the glitter of light in Sebastian’s fingertips. Just enough time to see the stubborn fury in Sebastian’s face. Just enough time to register a leaping surge of triumph in his chest, before he hears a triumphant laugh outside and the whole world is abruptly, suddenly, dark.

 


	6. Aladdin (Part 2)

Sebastian is gone, disappeared without a trace.

The light outside has changed; ruddier, softer, like a red giant has replaced the sun. Jim turns a slow, deliberate circle on his heel. The gold walls shimmer, jewel-encrusted and empty. Embroidered cushions still indented by Sebastian’s weight begin to spring back into form. Outside the air smells of rotting fruit, heavy and humid on Jim’s tongue. Sweat is already beginning to bead on his brow.

No use calling out for Sebastian. A cool fist of anger curls around Jim’s stomach. He crosses his arms and taps his foot, lifting his chin to glare at the door that leads to the rest of the palace. His head tilts - just a little - tracing the sumptuous shadows beyond the curving archway.

_Come and get me._

Somewhere outside the palace there’s the jagged call of a hornbill, cutting through smaller songbirds like derisive laughter. Another one starts in answer, and another, until the room fills with their mocking. Jim feels his mouth twist up in a sneer. With an effort, he licks his lips and schools his face to patience.

The doorframe is picked out in marble and the shadows past it are pure creamy black. Jim’s slippered foot taps soundlessly and impatiently against the floor again, and he uncrosses his arms – letting them swing as he huffs.

That’s when there are footsteps outside, of course. Of _course._

A man enters the room, arms spread wide so his billowing velvet robe flies back like wings behind him. “Princess!” he cries, smile brilliant and fake, flashing white against his dark skin. His hair is pulled back and wound up in a glittering mass of rainbow beads. Although he wears the same court robes as Jim, they are lined in fur and belted at the waist with gold coins. From his belt hangs the long, twisting horn of a ram. Around his neck a fetish-bag is tied. He has a neatly trimmed beard, oiled and shaped into two sharp points.

At his shoulder hovers the djinn.

“ _You,_ ” Jim spits.

“Princess!” The stranger exclaims again, clasping a hand over his heart. “Do you know me? But no – I have never seen you a day before in my life! Nonetheless, I think we are to become much better acquainted. You see…”

Jim tunes the magician out. He stares instead at the djinn. Jim’s fingers twist around the uncomfortable stiffness of his rings, digging them deep into his palms. The djinn’s head tilts back, black-within-black eyes shining and revealing nothing. The black patterns on its blue skin twist and writhe, Arabic writing tracing down its bare, muscled arms.

Thin gold chains dig into the dark skin of its wrists, over the bones. Jim’s eyes flick over it, trying to find other jewellery; anything but the chains. He can’t. When the evil magician’s robes sway away enough for Jim to glimpse the djinn’s bare feet, he catches the glint of more chains at its ankles.

“Freedom,” Jim interrupts, abruptly. “Freedom, in exchange for Sebastian.”

The djinn’s head inclines, slowly, in a nod.

“Freedom?” The magician’s head tilts quizzically. “Sebastian? No, Princess! My name is Abai. And far from freeing you – I aim to be your husband.”

“I don’t _think_ so,” Jim sings. “Now unless you’re a good boy and release me, you’re going to have a teensy problem on your hands. See, my _real_ husband isn’t a very nice man. But he is _persistent._ I don’t know where you’ve taken me, but he’ll be following. You can count on that.”

Abai presses his fingertips together under his chin and frowns exaggeratedly. “Ah. Your… husband. I _am_ sorry, Princess.” He taps his finger on his chin. “Seeing Ala ad-Din’s palace had disappeared, and that he was using the false power of a djinn to pretend to be a prince, the Sultan grew angry. He… I do not wish to speak unpleasant words, but Al ad-Din was beheaded, by your father's command.”

Jim stares at Abai. He feels his head begin to shake, back and forth, slow at first then getting faster. His fists ball at his sides, digging his fingernails into his palms. “No. No. It’s not…”

The magician spreads his arms, hands facing the gilded ceiling, face sorrowful. “I am sorry, Princess,” he repeats.

Jim’s mouth shuts. He can feel his face go cold as it drains of blood. His fingers tingle beneath his rings, cold despite the hot sweat that collects at the small of his back. “It’s not _true,_ ” he spits.

Abai bows, as if acknowledging Jim’s words. “I will leave you to grieve, Princess,” he says quietly. “And hope that you might consider a life with me. It shall not be too terrible, I would hope. I can promise you…”

“Out,” Jim interrupts, quietly. Abai glances upwards. “ _Out!_ ” Jim shrieks, voice jumping loud and shrill. He casts about, and finding nothing heavy to throw, snatches up a cushion. It rings the beads in Abai’s hair, making them click together like wind chimes. Abai stumbles backwards. Jim grabs another cushion, casts it after the first. The throw pillow disappears mid-air, before it can strike the djinn’s face. “Both of you! Get _out!_ Get _out!_ ”

Abai beats a hasty retreat, snapping his fingers at the djinn to follow. Jim collapses back on the couch, where Sebastian’s scent still lingers.

_It can’t be true. Sebastian will come for me._

_It can’t be true._

\--------------

Jim dreams. Sebastian on his knees, the roar of the crowd cheering for blood. The rise of the scimitar over Sebastian’s neck, fine blond hairs pricking in the morning sun.

Jim dreams Sebastian on a groady warehouse floor, hands bound with zipties behind him. Jim dreams a Sig Sauer pressed into the back of Sebastian’s skull.

“Did you _lie to me,_ Aladdin?”

“ _No,_ Boss.”

It's half a memory, of all the other executions Jim's preformed. Jim pulls the hammer back. He can hear Sebastian’s breath catch on his lips. “I didn’t lie to you, Boss, I wouldn’t.” How many people has Jim had like this? Sebastian’s crisp white shirt, dirty and stained with sweat, strains at his wide shoulders. Jim runs the muzzle of the gun over the hairs at the base of his skull, feeling them catch on the steel. The gun is heavy and comforting in his hand, grip cold. It slips in Sebastian’s sweat, pulling the collar of his shirt downwards. At the base of his neck, by his shoulder, there’s a scar.

_The King had Al ad-Din beheaded -_

“I _wouldn’t_ ,” Sebastian insists into the silence. He tugs at the zip-ties. Jim can smell his fear, the reek of sweat and blood and dirt.

_Seeing his wealth had disappeared, and he was using the false power of a djinn to pretend to be a prince –_

Jim hisses, “You thought you could play rich for me, _Sebby?”_ Sebastian’s head jerks upwards, pressing him back into the muzzle of Jim’s gun. “You thought you could _lie about profits?! To **me?!”**_

How many times has Jim done this? Half dream. Half memory. He can feel the resistance of the trigger under his finger as it starts to tighten.

Sebastian’s head turns slightly, exposing his profile. Jim can see his scar, his lips, but not his eyes.

“ _Shadow King,_ ” Sebastian whispers.

Jim pulls the trigger, and comes awake screaming at the bark of the gun.

His bedroom is dark, but outside his window he can see the light blue outlines of dawn. Inside, the air is clear and cool. It tastes of dew, of grass and mud and river-water. The sound of birds is thick on the air, over the hush of wind through reeds.

The djinn stands at the end of his bed; two fingers touching Jim’s foot underneath the blankets. The golden chains around its wrists seem thicker in the uncertain light, tighter, biting into its dark skin.

“He has not been executed, Professor James Moriarty,” the djinn tells Jim, softly, with a voice like the smell of hot metal. Jim presses a hand to his chest, stilling the remnants of the dream, and digs his fingernails in. Thinking of eyes in his flesh; thinking of razors. “He was not meant to be. Although… your lover does not belong in this world any more than you do.” The djinn frowns. “I do not like how you and Sebastian Moran have begun to change what future was written here.”

Bizarrely, all Jim can think of to say is, “He’s not my lover,” even though _I’m not a Professor,_ or _how exactly did you come by my name,_ or _call me James and I’ll skin you_ might be more appropriate responses.

“In this place?” the djinn smiles, baring its thin, needle-sharp teeth. “No. But I see many times, many intersecting lives.” It tilts its head, steel-blue and black shadows playing on its face so the lines on its skin seem to writhe. “The professor and the tiger-hunter. Consulting criminal and sniper. Tiger and magpie. Al ad-Din and the Princess. Sedna and the sea spirit…”

Jim’s mouth is dry. “Very clever of you, I must say. Then you know where I came from…?”

The djinn inclines its head. The sun is rising fast; shadows collect and fade together, leaving its eyes wells of blackness, its cheeks sunken, its mouth rimmed in seductive darkness.

“And you can _send us back._ ”

“Do you wish to go together? There are intersecting lives, and lives in parallel.” The djinn shakes its head, slow and mournful. “He was no more meant to meet you then you were meant to have him.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What has been done is unnatural, and cannot be made right. Not by my power.”

Jim’s mouth tastes bitter and stale. “Of _course_ not.”

“But. There is some small favour I can grant. We had a deal, James Moriarty.” The djinn extends a hand, palm up, showing the flawless links of its chains. “I will bring Sebastian Moran to you. In return, as promised, you must grant my freedom. Find the lamp which Abai holds within his robes, and smash it, and scatter the pieces to the four winds.” It pauses, and a very human expression passes over its face; a sort of bitten-back hope, yearning for what cannot be possible. “I was never meant to break these chains, but if you can alter the course of your own destiny, perhaps mine might also be changed.”

The djinn withdraws its hand, gold chains jangling musically against its bones.

Jim nods, slowly. “Ye-e-essss…” he draws out the syllables between his teeth, thinking fast. “Now, while we’re on the subject of _was never meant to be –_ “

“Do you wish to know what _was_ meant to be?”

Jim shrugs and smiles, the picture of innocent curiosity. “Might be fun.”

The djinn smiles back, showing altogether too many teeth for its mouth. “Be careful what you wish for, Moriarty.”

Sparks begin to show on its skin, pin-pricks of light writhing down the black lines in its flesh like a flashlight through a moth-holed curtain. They bead, running down its face and neck and chest, merging together from tiny points into streams. The djinn raises its hand again, lined in shining light like it’s swallowed a small sun. Over its wrists, where the chains bind it, its skin remains dull and black. Jim watches the tips of its fingers start to glow, then a thin arc of light jumps from the djinn to his forehead like static electricity.

Jim jerks back, instinctively, body remembering the pain of Mycroft’s light in his brain.

Of course, the movement is far too slow.

\--------------

Sebastian kneels in an empty flat, candlelight playing on his white-blonde hair. As Jim enters he stiffens; turning to look not at Jim but through him. His narrow, suspicious eyes scan the dark room; finding nothing, he shakes it off with a brusque shrug of his shoulders. A short snort of air through his nose, and Sebastian goes back to the antique rifle he’s assembling on the bare floorboards. The room smells of lamp-oil and cheap alcohol. Jim shoves his hands in his pockets, willing himself not to reach out and touch the bare skin on the back of Sebastian’s neck. Outside, a streetlamp smokes and burns. Carriage wheels rattle over the cobbles. In the window across from them there’s a man silhouetted in lamp light, crisp curls disappearing into a turned-up coat collar.

Jim drifts around to one side of Sebastian, so he can see Sebastian’s face in the light. His footsteps make no sound; leave no marks in the dust on the floor.

Sebastian is ten years older than he looks in the fairy-tales, with a somewhat ridiculous moustache and a high, starched collar that cuts into the rough hairs under his jaw. His Inverness coat is made of thick, heavy wool, so dark grey it looks black. The cut of it widens his shoulders, obscures the lithe nip of his waist. He looks more like a hulking brute than the lean man Jim knows.

Sebastian raises the gun to his shoulder.

Jim reaches out, fingers hesitating over the back of Sebastian’s head. Outside, the lamplights flicker. Sebastian shivers, head to toe, like a ripple going through water. Jim’s fingers brush the silken fall of Sebastian’s blonde-white hair.

Electricity sparks off his finger into Sebastian’s skull. The world flashes white.

Jim takes a breath that tastes of ozone and hot metal and gunpowder, and shuts his eyes. Exhales. Inhales again. This time the air tastes of blood and muck, and heavy, stifling heat. It’s so humid that breathing feels like drowning. Jim opens his eyes in the middle of a jungle monsoon, the dark browns and candle oranges of Victorian London exploding into innumerable shades of green. There can’t be names for them all. Emerald and lime and forest and –

All drowning in the _rain._

Drops pound down on Jim’s shoulders, heavy enough to drive him into the ground. Water pastes his hair in streaming rivulets to his cheekbones. Jim gasps for breath around the torrent, wiping water from his eyes, half-blind and half-drowned. He stumbles forward, feet churning the muddy grass, to the shelter of a wide-leafed tree. Outside his small circle of shelter, the rain pours down like an apocalypse.

In front of Jim is a drain-pipe, barely more than a hole in the ground. The cover has been thrown roughly aside and is rapidly being sucked beneath a layer of mud in the grass. As Jim watches Sebastian heaves himself out of the ground, covered in a black mix of gore and mud. He clutches to the rim of the drainpipe and drags himself upwards with agonizing effort, muscles tense and rigid as he hauls himself forward enough to collapse onto the grass. He claws the muck from his face, pale white streaks of skin showing underneath a thick encrusting paste. He’s bleeding, heavily, deep gashes spreading his torso open in three wide stripes. Jim can see the white gleam of bone rise and fall at the bottom of one of them as Sebastian breathes. The inside of his mouth as he pants is incongruously bright pink, his teeth startlingly white. At the top of each breath he coughs something out that might be a laugh, hysterical, choking. Sebastian’s eyes are shut, and even his lashes are stained, dirt-brown fur above his bloodstained face. His lip is split, the jagged tear in his skin running up to his brow, just missing his eye. His shirt hangs in ribbons, and his pants are barely keeping him decent; there’s blood there, too, more jagged gashes in the broad muscles of his thighs.

Jim can hear something wild in Sebastian’s laugh. Something primal: exultant in the unexpected triumph of survival. He lets himself drift closer, past Sebastian’s shuddering form, to stare into the drainpipe.

At the bottom is the corpse a tiger, twice again the size of a man. A knife juts from the bottom of her jaw, angled up to impale her brain. Bullet wounds seep blood and rainwater into her thick fur, staining it irreparably. Her jaw, frozen in death, is half open on a snarl. Any one of her teeth would be larger than Jim’s palm.

Jim blinks, raising his eyebrows, and turns back to give Sebastian’s injuries another look. It’s no use. Sebastian has flipped over on his stomach, still breathlessly laughing, and is dragging himself in a flat-bellied crawl away from the drainpipe. Jim watches him struggle, the smear of blood Sebastian leaves behind him in the dirt.

 _Stupid,_ Jim thinks, _And reckless, and pointless. And **impressive.**_

He reaches out to the red and black hair at the base of Sebastian’s skull, watches electricity spark off his fingers.

The world goes white.

After the vivid greens and blues and reds of the monsoon jungle, Jim may have lost the ability to see colour entirely. The world is nothing but shades: Sebastian’s white hair, the grey gleam of the Sig Saur, the intermittent black of the warehouse floor. And Jim’s pale thumb, pulling the hammer back.

Sebastian’s crisp white shirt strains to cover the muscles of his shoulders. Jim wonders if it presses hard against his scars. The gun caresses the base of Sebastian’s skull, bumping over the rough hairs on his neck. Jim licks his lips as the muzzle slips on Sebastian’s sweat, jagging downwards to the collar of his shirt, where it pulls to expose the tanned skin of his shoulder.

“ _Boss,_ ” Sebastian pleads, low and broken.

“Enjoying this, are you, Sebby? _”_

Sebastian’s presses himself back into the muzzle of Jim’s gun. “Dammit, Jim –”

Jim slides his finger down over the trigger. He can’t remember if the safety’s on. “Ask _nicely_.”

Sebastian turns, not enough to knock the gun away from the base of his skull, but enough that he can see Jim out of the corner of his eyes. His lips are parted, shiny-wet where he’s licked them.

“ _Please,_ ” Sebastian whispers.

Jim pulls the trigger.

The hammer clicks forward uselessly against the safety. Sebastian groans, tortured and wanting, and presses back, further, pushing the gun aside to rest his head against Jim’s thigh. Jim reaches down, tangles his fingers in Sebastian’s hair.

When Jim pulls Sebastian’s head back, his blue eyes are blown and wanting.

“Please,” Sebastian begs again, “God, Boss, Please.”

 _‘What was meant to be?’_ Jim asks silently, _Or have I gone back to dreaming?_

The djinn, if it hears, chooses not to answer.

\--------------

Jim wakes up with the kind of burning, frustrated ache in his lower stomach that usually makes him bed and murder some unlucky employee. He’s not hard, but with a second’s concentration he could be – thinking about the pink slick of Sebastian’s mouth as he’d panted, bloody and exhausted and triumphant –

 _And that’s quite enough of **that**._ Jim sits up quickly, before his mind can ride that train of thought any further.

Sebastian grins at him from the foot of the bed, perched neatly on the corner with his back set against the bedpost. Jim licks his upper lip and immediately scowls, which makes Sebastian grin. He’s toying with a knife, point denting one finger as he twirls it in his other hand. Jim feels the insane urge to punch him, and restrains himself with some difficulty.

“What took _you_ so long?” he snaps.

“Well good _morning_ to you too, Princess _,_ ” Sebastian replies smugly. “Hate to break it to you, but I’ve killed your husband again. Two-for-three, so far.”

He twists the blade to show off a rust-red stain lining the blade. Jim raises his eyebrows and purrs back, “ _Wow,_ I only had to make a deal with a djinn to help you. _Not_ impressed, pet.”

Sebastian grimaces at Jim, scrunching up his nose in distain so his scar tissue twists. Jim sticks out his tongue back just to be petty, then tugs both hands through his hair. He’s unsure if he’s fixing it or making it worse. **_God_** _, waking up is a dismal experience._ Jim scrubs both hands over his face, wiping away the image of Sebastian on his knees, dark-eyed and wanting.

“Does that mean we’ve gone completely off the ending already?”

Jim drops his hands and looks up at Sebastian. Blue eyes watch him narrowly, as if weighing each expression that crosses Jim’s face.

Jim’s thoughts reel drunkenly across his brain. _I don’t know. I don’t care. Let me see your scars. Did you feel alive for the first time, dying? Was that why you pressed back into my gun? Would you do it again? Would you chase me into a drain pipe, would you corner me, tooth and claw, let me rip you open, let me –_

**_Stop_ ** _that._

Jim plasters a blank smile to his face to cover his thoughts. “ _Aw,_ we don’t get our happily ever after? I’m ever _so_ disappointed.”

“I think I was supposed to kill him eventually,” Sebastian muses philosophically, “We may have just skipped a bit.” Jim opens his mouth to respond but before he can, Sebastian adds – with a blinding flash of insight – “That wasn’t what _you_ were thinking about, though. Odd, because I thought breaking the stories was the point. So tell me. What’s more important than getting free?”

Jim blinks at him, eyes wide and completely devoid of emotion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.”

“ _Careful,_ darling, that’s getting awfully close to _questioning_ me,” Jim sings.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Sebastian snaps back. “If you want unquestioning obedience, I think I told you, you picked up the _wrong fucking_ – “

In a heartbeat Jim is out of bed and on Sebastian. This time he doesn’t bother grabbing Sebastian’s throat; he throws his weight into Sebastian’s chest, dipping his shoulder to hit hard and low, and knocks them both off the bed. Sebastian goes down with a curse, twisting to hit the floor and roll over. He’s quick, and well trained, and he has a soldier’s instincts and muscles to help him.

Jim is still faster.

The moment Sebastian hits the floor Jim is on him, shoving his shoulders down and pinning Sebastian’s elbows with his knees. Sebastian bucks up, twisting his hips, and Jim rides the momentum forward; slamming his fist into Sebastian’s jaw. Sebastian goes limp immediately, head thumping against the floor. The knife in his hands clatters backwards, out of both their reach.

Jim patiently waits for Sebastian’s eyes to focus again before speaking. He leans his weight forward, putting pressure from the bones of his knees into Sebastian’s sensitive joints. Sebastian grunts; the air forced out of his lungs through gritted teeth as he tries not to give away how much it hurts.

His panting mouth is just slightly open, a thin line of wetness on his lips. His blonde hair is a spiky mess, jaw flushed as it begins to bruise, and his eyes glare upwards in stubborn refusal to submit –

Jim shoves his hand through his hair and shuts his eyes to give himself a minute. _Now now,_ he tells himself firmly, straightening, _you can fuck the stubborn out of him when you’re **not** in the wrong universe_.

“Get _off_ me,” Sebastian spits.

“When you learn to behave,” Jim tells him calmly, and tries not to think about breaking Sebastian down until he can’t do anything but beg Jim for more. On his knees, maybe, with Jim’s fingers twisted in his hair, panting, spit and precum running down his – _really, I’m like a teenager seeing his first pair of tits._

“ _Fuck_ you,” Sebastian replies, not entirely helpfully.

_We could move the **breaking** part up in the schedule, though._

Jim strikes Sebastian open-palmed, once forehand and then again lazily on the back-stroke, using his arm’s natural momentum. The twin slaps are loud in the morning stillness, drowning out the bird-song outside. Sebastian’s blonde hair flares with the blows, accompanied by the flutter of his eyelashes as he tries to blink the world back into focus –

Jim snarls, and wrestles his thoughts back under control, _again_. “Ready to play nice, darling?”

Sebastian scowls up at Jim like he wants to shred Jim alive, but he nods. “ _Fine.”_

_Resentment, frustration, helplessness – you’re like a pop song, I **know** it’s bad, but I can’t get it out of my head – _

“Why don’t you start with the glowing fingers? That’s _twice_ now you’ve done that. Really starting to think this _I’m-not-an-Aberrant_ thing is a bit of a lie.”

“Like I give a fuck what you think,” Sebastian snaps back, tossing his head to clear his hair from his face. “I don’t know _why_ it happens, alright? It’s not like the situations were the same – ”

“Well you weren’t thinking about _saving_ me.”

“ _No,_ ” Sebastian admits, grinding his teeth together sharply, “I was thinking about pinning you down to that table and teaching you a _fucking lesson.”_

Jim can’t help it. He laughs. Between his legs Sebastian tenses, the first start of a struggle. Jim tries to stop, he really does, but it’s just too _funny._

“Shut the fuck up,” Sebastian snarls, cheeks flushed in humiliation. Obviously he doesn’t get the joke. “It was a passing fucking thought, okay? Like I’d want to – ”

“Oh, _Sebby,_ ” Jim gasps, between giggles. “Oh, _darling._ You do. You _entirely_ do.”

Sebastian opens his mouth angrily, and Jim takes the opportunity to curl forward and catch Sebastian’s protests in a kiss.

It means giving up his leverage to hold Sebastian pinned, of course. But it’s worth it. There’s a startled moment where Sebastian doesn’t seem to breathe at all, so still and tense he nearly vibrates. Then he moans, low and despairing, and shudders into motion. He presses upwards into the kiss, sucking Jim’s bottom lip into his mouth where he can drag it over his teeth. Pain flares, bright and intense, then Sebastian lets Jim go – just on the edge of enough. He draws back and Jim chases him, hot breath coming faster as he pushes Sebastian’s head back. There’s a ripple of motion underneath them as Sebastian twists: now that Jim’s not paying attention Sebastian flips them easily.

Jim’s shoulders hit the floor, and then Sebastian’s crushing weight settles on his chest, between his legs. Jim wraps his arms up and around Sebastian, digging into the muscles of his back, clawing red lines over Sebastian’s scars. Sebastian groans again, breath hot on Jim’s lips, and he murmurs something Jim can’t catch before his tongue slips between Jim’s lips. Jim bucks up against him, hard muscles of Sebastian’s stomach hot and breathtakingly solid against his cock, and even with fabric separating them, it’s – fuck, it’s –

Sebastian’s hand wraps around Jim’s neck, thumb setting under Jim’s chin. Jim finds his head shoved roughly upwards and opens his eyes, meeting Sebastian’s narrow, intense stare.

He fights for breath, blood pounding under Sebastian’s fingers on his jugular. Sebastian’s lips are swollen, painted red, and Jim wants desperately to bite them open like he would overripe fruit.

The room seems lighter than it should. Hairs rise on the back of Jim’s neck, but he’s not thinking – not thinking of anything but Sebastian – and he presses himself upwards, grinding, fucking, _wanting –_

Jim doesn’t notice the bright gleam of Sebastian’s fingers. But he feels the electric shock of a Sending in his temples, right before their lips seal together again.

\--------------

 

 


	7. The Dog and the Sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ From here. ](http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/authors/grimms/58dogsparrow.html) Gore warning.

The road is dry and dusty, stretching out towards the horizon without end over a flat plane of golden, waving wheat. The sky is pure, clear robin’s egg blue, uninterrupted except for on the pale horizon where a few wispy clouds drift like horses’ tails. The sun, directly overhead, pounds down into the dirt: any movement by the lazy snakes and lizards in the sun by the roadside kicks up small clouds of dust.

A dog stumbles down the road, gaunt and unsteady. Its ribs stand out like ladder rungs over its swollen, distended stomach, its legs worn down to nothing but tendon and bone. Its tongue lolls from its mouth, shining and slick, licking nervously around its chops as the sun dries out its saliva. The dog’s eyes are blue, bright against its mangy dun fur. It whines quietly to itself, weaving side to side down the road, chasing the mirage lines of heat that rise from the gravel. Behind it the dirt slowly settles back to the ground, kicked up by paws far too large for its spindly legs.

Jim, perched on a fence-post, rustles his feathers against each other to hear the soft noise they make. He cocks his head, hopping from foot to foot. As the dog stumbles closer, he can make out angry red weals on its sides, weeping copper blood that evaporates and clumps in its fur. His own shining feathers seem improbably thick and strong in comparison.

“Dog,” he calls, when it gets close enough. His human voice is startling, coming from his gleaming black beak.

The dog glances up, licking its chops.

“Jim.”

Sebastian’s voice, rasping and dry from dehydration and exhaustion. Jim’s head cocks to the other side, and he hops back to the left on the fence-post. “Are you starving?” he asks, because the script calls for it and for once he doesn’t want to ask the questions in his own mind.

“Yes,” Sebastian says simply.

Jim watches his knees buckle, watches Sebastian collapse over his ungainly paws in a heap that sends a plume of dust towards the horse-hair clouds in the distance. He flutters down and lands in the gravel by Sebastian’s head. A single blue eye fixes on him, then slowly shuts – tear ducts barren, eyes rimmed with red. The air smells of bones and ashes, and around them for miles the wheat waves uninterrupted.

Jim’s beak is dry. He opens and shuts it, playing with his tongue so it clicks.

“Where have you come from, dog?”

“A cruel master,” Sebastian tells him, eyes still pressed shut to conserve precious moisture against the heat. The sun shifts an inch in the sky. Sebastian’s desiccated body casts no shadow on the road. His tongue lolls out into the dirt, picking up black grains of sand. His teeth are yellow, stained, one canine broken just above the root. “Better to die on my feet than in that house.”

Jim feels a tight surge of pity in his chest and flutters his wings to show sympathy, shaking his head. Sebastian won’t die on his feet. He’ll die on his stomach, starving.

Jim has condemned men to many things. Death by starvation is not one.

He hops closer, until a single quick twist and snap of Sebastian’s massive jaws would swallow him down whole. Sebastian opens one eye again, watching Jim move. Jim can see the flicker of debate there – the bird’s blood would be salty, but it would be good, so good, to quench thirst and hunger for only a moment more…

Sebastian’s black gums pull back from his teeth in a half-hearted snarl, then the dog yawns and goes still again. He rests his head in his paws, lacking the energy even to save himself. The heat weighs on his bony, angular shoulders, pressing him down into the dirt. Jim’s feathers itch, dry and dusty. Jim picks a clump of fur under Sebastian’s eye with his beak, and pulls back tasting of salt and tears.

“I can steal meat for you,” Jim tells him. “Bread.”

The dog huffs out something that might be a laugh. “If you want to save the life of a worthless bitch,” he tells Jim, with something that might be mockery if he wasn’t so weary. It half sounds like Sebastian’s normal voice, instead of the raw ruin of starvation. Jim nips his face again for the sarcasm, making Sebastian’s muzzle wrinkle up in a distasteful snarl.

“What are friends for?”

Jim spreads his wings, casting a slight shadow over Sebastian’s brow, and takes off in an explosion of feathers and dust. It’s not far to the nearest farmhouse. Jim swoops in the high window of a store room, tugging and teasing out a package of freshly slaughtered beef. He carries it back to Sebastian, the muscles of his chest and wings burning with effort, and drops it into the dirt. Blood seeps from the brown butcher’s paper, staining the dull grey of the road.

Jim wrestles with the twine, plucking the package open with his beak, and flaps his wings encouragingly at Sebastian. “Eat.”

At first he thinks Sebastian is too far gone to even try. The dog’s sandy tongue licks out, barely dragging over the edge of the slab of meat in front of him. Jim aches to see Sebastian so weak, although – he hopes, he clings to – that is just the story. Just the script.

The first taste, the bloom of red on Sebastian’s tongue, seems to revitalize him enough to drag himself forward on his belly. He drops his muzzle into the paper, scarfing down the meat in three massive gulps. Jim can hear his stomach growl and rumble in protest.

When the meat’s gone, Sebastian licks the paper clean, until even the dirt of the road is gray again. His head falls to the side, and his blue eyes open half-way; watching Jim sleepily.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Jim tilts his head. “Don’t thank me,” he tells Sebastian, “I never do anything for free.” He wishes he could smile to soften the words.

Sebastian’s shoulders shift. It might be a shrug. Jim spreads his wings, shielding Sebastian’s eyes from the glare of the sun. A breeze idles through the air, hotter even than the updraft from the road, bringing no relief from the suffocating air.

“Sleep,” he tells Sebastian. “I will watch over you.”

Sebastian’s eyes drift shut. The dog sighs, blowing a tiny dirt devil away over the road in front of him. Jim watches the tension drain from Sebastian’s decimated body, exposed bones of his ribs rising and falling into the steady rhythm of sleep. His breath stirs the dirt in front of him, small puffs like a testament to his heartbeat.

Jim flaps into the air, and perches on Sebastian’s shoulder. Even his small weight presses the dog down further into the road. Jim folds his wings tight against his back, casting his head from side to side so he can watch the horizon with first one eye, and then the other. In the head the road shimmers and seems to twist.

_I’ll watch over you._

Jim hops from foot to foot, feeling the stark bone of Sebastian’s shoulder warm under his talons.

\---------------------

There’s a cloud on the horizon like a storm coming in. Jim flaps his wings nervously, craning his neck to preen his shoulders. Between his wings there’s a nervous itch, a niggling frustration. It’s getting to be noon, and the day is breathlessly hot; arid, even the wispy clouds on the horizon driven away by the unrelenting sun. Jim’s tongue tastes of grit and sand. Through the waves of heat he can barely make out a wagon approaching, rough woods tacked together unevenly so it lists hard to the right as it drives. A draft horse hauls it, head down, flanks heaving with exertion in the afternoon heat. The driver wears a floppy brimmed hat that waves with each bump and pothole the wagon drives over. He’s got his head leaned back against the backboard of the wagon, eyes almost shut as he keeps an eye out for cattle. There isn’t a bend in the road for miles. He’s got his boots kicked up on the front board, toes dull with dust. It’s too dry for mud, but there are small chunks of rock caught in his treads. Jim cries out a warning, but his voice is drowned under the trundle and creak of the wagon.

It looms over them, slow inexorable motion digging deep trenches in the dry dust of the road, heading straight for Sebastian. Jim cries out, a shrill squawk, but the driver’s eyes are dipping languidly closed.

Jim leaps into the air, screaming warning, heart pounding out his wingtips. He flaps his wings in the drivers face – lands on his shoulder – hops on his knee.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ”

The driver waves a hand vaguely, buffeting Jim head over heels through the air.

“There’s a dog in the road!” Jim cries, but it means nothing. The wheels roll forward, towards Sebastian.

Jim dives, biting Sebastian’s ears, tugging at his nose, drawing blood in a hundred tiny places to force the dog to wake. But Sebastian sleeps. Jim flaps his wings against Sebastian’s shut eyes, screaming.

“ _Wake up – wake up – don’t – it’s just the story, don’t, you **can’t** – “_

But Sebastian sleeps.

At the last moment, when the wheel casts a long shadow over Jim’s head, he throws himself out of the way.

There’s a sharp crack as the cart rolls over Sebastian’s neck, the snapping sound of broken bone. Jim cries out, voice catching in his throat, feathers quivering, but the cart rolls on; driver rocked in his seat by just another bump. The brim of his floppy hat waves like the wheat in the wind, casting a shadow on his face.

Jim shakes with cold fury, feeling darkness like a knot in his heart. “You’ve _killed_ him,” Jim hisses, no longer caring if the driver hears. “ _You’ve killed him!”_

The driver trundles on, rocked in his seat by the motion of the wagon.

Jim leaps into the air, muscles of his back pulling and surging as he flies up into the face of the driver’s horse. The placid animal jerks its neck back, shaking out a long, dark mane, and takes a falling step to the left. Tears have crusted to its eyes, and its flanks are damp and heaving from the heat.

Jim’s beak sinks into its eyeball without resistance.

The horse screams. A thick, mucousy mix of tissue runs down its face as its eyeball bursts, the socket draining down over its coarse black hair. Jim can hear the driver curse, scrambling up from his seat. Jim spreads his wings, hopping on the back of the horses’ neck and crying rage and defiance back in the man’s face.

_You killed him, you killed him, you killed him –_

The man grabs an axe from beside his seat and swings wildly. Jim takes flight in a blur of dark feathers, too fast to be caught. The axe, carried by momentum even though the driver tries to hold back, embeds in the back of the horse’s neck. Tension leaves its body instantly, and its knees buckle. The axe comes free as the horse falls, with a sucking sound, pulling flesh and torn muscle back with it. Jim can see the glint white, the severed bones of the horse’s spine. Its blood begins to seep into the dry, thirsty dirt, drowning the ground around it.

“You _fucking_ bird!” The driver screams, “ _Get back here! I’ll kill you!”_

“I’m not _done yet,_ ” Jim snarls back, and starts flying back the way the wagon came. The dusty earth falls away beneath him like a dream, distant and untouchable. Sebastian’s golden corpse becomes just another speck on the road. The driver, mindless with rage, waves his axe in the air and shouts. Jim can hear his breath come laboured and hard in his throat as he chases the sparrow back to the farm.

_Sebastian’s breath, catching with my fingers in his hair –_

Blind, consuming fury overtakes Jim and for a heartbeat he hurtles downwards, forgetting even to fly with the force of the rage surging over him.

_Your horse? Not **nearly** enough to buy my forgiveness._

In the driver’s house his son has fallen asleep on the table, a stick of charcoal clutched in his small, pudgy fist. He’s been drawing on the table, onion-shapes, like the minarets of Sebastian’s palace. Jim lands on the back of his neck, and forces himself to preen; craning his head to pluck aimlessly at his shoulders, as if he’s relaxed. Inside his heart is a tight knot, a closed fist.

The driver smashes through the door with a bang, by some miracle not waking his son. Jim stares up at him, challenging. The axe, still crimson with the blood of the plough horses, swings from the drivers hand. He smacks it against his opposite palm, a wet sound, slapping against his sweat. Jim flutters his wings encouragingly and goes back to preening, keeping one eye on the driver.

_Not enough. You haven’t paid me enough yet._

The axe swings. The blade descends through the air with a faint whistle, like a guillotine, smelling of hot metal and copper blood and dry, dusty earth.

Jim is a shadow. No one can touch him.

The axe slices the head of the child free from his shoulders like bone and muscle are nothing but air. It goes rolling off over the other side of the table, charcoal drawings drowning in a spray of gore that flicks against Jim’s wings. The child’s blonde hair – _pale, like straw, like –_ stains pink, and then red. His lips, still swollen with baby-fat, move soundlessly; tired eyes round in shock.

The driver makes a keening sound like the world has ended, dropping to his knees. His bones clack against the hardwood floor. He reaches out a shuddering hand, eyes blank, face spattered with the blood of his child.

_Not enough._

Jim flies closer, taunting him. With a raw howl of rage, despairing and broken, the driver lashes out. His huge, calloused hand, the size of a meat cleaver, wraps around Jim, pinning his wings to his size. Jim can feel his terrified heart, slamming against the callouses on the driver’s fingers.

The driver opens his mouth, baring stained white teeth like piano keys. Jim struggles, pressing hard, trying for freedom.

The joints of his wings pinned to his body, Jim kicks and screeches as the driver raises him to pink, fleshy lips. He gets a whiff of the driver’s breath, rank and overpowering. A drop of saliva falls on the soft down at the base of his shoulders, making his spine writhe under his skin. Jim screams, angry and helpless. And the driver swallows him whole.

In the drivers throat Jim’s wings are pressed less tightly and he spreads them, slamming them wide against the slick, moist inside of the driver’s neck. He hears choking sounds, and shoves harder, dragging himself upwards inch by inch. The driver shouts something; Jim can hear the voice vibrate under his wingtips, vocal chords pressed tight through layers of blood and flesh. Jim jabs his beak into the bottom of the man’s tongue and uses it to haul himself upwards, like a soft, moist carpet, like intestines in his mouth.

Jim gags. The driver shouts something else.

There’s a whistling sound, then a _crunch,_ and Jim’s world tumbles head over heels. He clings to the driver’s tonsils, pressing his body flat against the slimy flesh, shuddering in distaste. When the universe settles, there’s light behind him. Jim looks over his shoulder. The driver’s headless body slumps down against the doorframe, a woman dropping the axe, pressing her hands to the stump of his neck like she can stave off the blood.

She’s weeping, her face red and contorted.

Jim hops free of the man’s severed head, and spreads his wings. _Never enough,_ he thinks, seeing Sebastian’s corpse in the dirt.


	8. Connla and the Fairy Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Connla and the Fairy Maiden ](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/cft/cft04.htm)
> 
> Minor warnings for porn, dom/sub dynamics, masochism, and mentions of drug use.

Jim wakes up with fear pounding hard in his mouth. He rolls over, tangling the rough woolen blankets between his legs. Around his throat is a cold ring of metal, claustrophobic and choking. Jim curls his fingers beneath it and pulls hard, but the metal just jerks against the back of his neck; welded shut. That tugs a string of memory in the back of Jim’s head, so strong it breaks through the panic pulling his cortex to pieces.  Jim kicks the blankets from his bare legs, putting a hand on his chest and measuring his breathing carefully. His heart jumps beneath his fingers, seeking escape through the front of his chest. Jim lets his head loll to the side, arching his back to stretch his spine. The wall beside him is bare stone, with an glassless window and curtains drifting in the breeze. The air is cold and wet in his mouth, but there’s a smell to it – of pine and rosemary and moss underneath mist. Jim breathes deep, letting his lungs fill with it. The last time he’d smelled this air, it’d been choked by exhaust and alcohol and poverty. But he remembers it.

The smell of home.

The circle of metal around his throat is gold, then. The torque of Cruithine royalty. Sweat dries underneath it on Jim’s skin, leaving the metal itchy and cold. It still feels too tight around his neck; just this side of breath play. Jim swings his legs over the bed and sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face with a scowl. The light in his bedroom is cold, blue in the space before dawn. Jim stretches his neck out with a sharp yank of his chin to the side that makes his spine crack, then stands and ambles over to the window. Naked, he feels the cool air brush against his skin like finger-tips, raising goose bumps in the fine hairs of his arms. Outside the sun is still beneath the hills, faint escaping rays painting the sky the lightest shade of lavender and the mists the milky colour of duck’s eggs. Jim’s bedroom looks out over a great, shining castle, with high walls of pure white marble flecked with mica. As the sun crests the horizon, the walls of the palace glisten in the morning light, like the castle is made of gold.

 _Tara,_ Jim realizes, half hearing his mamma’s drunken slur in his ear. _The High Court at Tara._ Oh, Mamma. Telling him fairy tales out of one side of her mouth with a half-smoked cigarette clamped in the other, her eyes dull and stupid. _Tara, where I could go if I was a good boy, and Finn and Conn would watch over me and Da would never find us…_

A hollow anger settles in Jim’s chest, pushing the bile of his stomach up through his throat. Dear old Mam had died with a needle so deep in her vein they’d had to pull it out with pliers, still dreaming of Tara, and Jim was too old for fairy tales when he was six. He was _never_ going to die strung-out and dreaming, not if he had to claw his way out of Ireland by his fingernails. Jim shakes his head, rubs his hands over his sweaty hair.

Why had he woken so terrified?

_Something about a dog…_

There’s a knock on the door, polite and deferential.

“What,” Jim demands, pinching his fingers over his eyes. _Something about a dog, and a wagon…_

“Connla, your father wishes you attend him and the court on the heights of Usna.”

Jim laughs, losing whatever thread of the dream he had caught. It sounds like a sob, tight and wracking. _Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights,_ Jim hears his mamma say _. One day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire coming towards him…_

 _I can’t be here. I can’t stay._ Jim fights the insistent panic in his chest down with an effort and sneers, “Oh, goody,” to cover the fidget of his fingers. A muscle in his thigh is jumping. The first rays of morning sun pierce straight through to his brain like nails.

Jim takes a deep breath and looks out over the shining walls of Tara.

 _This is it,_ he promises himself, hatred and bitterness heavy on his tongue, _This is the last time I play this stupid game._

_\---------------------_

Jim stands one pace behind and one pace to the right of Conn. The heights of Usna rise steeply from the lush fields below, surrounded by rolling hills of green and turquoise and blue. Mist sinks into the valleys around them, stretching white fingers out to the lush darkness between the trees. Behind Conn and his son are men and women in costumes that Jim recognizes from his mother’s thready voice, spinning stories. The high court of Tara: glittering and proud. Jim wants to spit on all of them, grind their gold and furs and feathers into the mud of Dublin.

_It’s not like this. It never was. Irish don’t get happy endings._

Conn stands with his chin high, of course, hands clasped behind his back, the gold torque of his kingship shining around his throat. Jim’s jaw works bitterly whenever he looks at the High King, so he’s very carefully and considerately just _stopped_ looking at him. No sense grinding his teeth to nothing, after all.

The Court is waiting, although if the original story said what they’re waiting for up here, Jim has forgotten.

_Mamma would know._

_I’ll just ask, shall I? Oh, and while I’m at it, I could ask her the proper dose of cocaine to get through this without being **bored.**_

Just when Jim’s ready to rip his own head off and play football with it to ease the monotony, a figure appears before them on the cliffs. The stranger stands tall, head and shoulders above the High King. He has a bare chest and woad warrior’s markings. Low on his scarred hips a wrap of black cloth is belted into the folds of a kilt, and his feet are bare. Mist weaves through his bright hair, traces the painted designs on his shoulders.

Blue eyes find the collar of gold around Jim’s neck with something like predatory glee. Jim glares back, lifting his chin, refusing to be stared down. “And where have _you_ been?” he demands of Sebastian.

“Like I’d let you have all the fun,” Sebastian grins back. “You know this one? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Just do the lines, for now.” Jim waves his hand dismissively, rolling his wrist in a _carry-on_ gesture. “May as well, until we can find some place to talk.” He fixes his eyes on the pulse in Sebastian’s throat and drops his voice to a deep, enticing purr. “Because oh, _pet,_ do I have things to say to _you._ ”

Sebastian’s shiver is extremely gratifying. His shoulders draw back, making his chest swell and back arch. Jim can appreciate the view, if nothing else.

"I come from the Plains of the Ever Living," Sebastian rattles off by way of a response, not giving any emotion to the recitation, "Where there is neither death nor sin – “

“Sounds boring.”

“Shut up, Jim – and there we are always happy, and in our pleasure we have no strife."

“ _Definitely_ boring.” Jim rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, half for the pleasure of watching Sebastian rise to the bait.

“Yeah, well, who asked you?”

Jim giggles, unable to help himself. Conn is staring at him aghast, and the court is shifting and whispering. Jim can hear the rustle of their robes and the clink of their jewelry as they lean in to hiss poison into each other’s ears.

The king leans down to Jim, glancing around at what – to him – are empty cliffs. Now that he’s started giggling, Jim finds it _really_ difficult to stop.

"To whom art thou talking, my son?" asks Conn, High King of Tara.

Jim waves a hand vaguely in Sebastian’s direction. _You take this one, darling._ Sebastian looks unimpressed, fingers tapping tensely against his thigh, but he does what Jim says.

 _Of course he does._ Jim shoves his thumb in his mouth and bites down hard to control his amusement, not stopping until his sharp canines break his skin. Part of him wonders if it’s hysteria. After all… _Tara._

"Connla speaks to me,” Sebastian responds, “Whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away to Moy Mell, land of pleasure.” Sebastian turns to Jim, and bows deeply, holding it, so Jim can see the hair on the back of his vulnerable neck. “Come with me, Jim. A crown awaits you, and your youth will last forever, and your beauty as well. "

Conn’s face twists in a fearful scowl. His eyes flick around the cliff behind Sebastian, unseeing although he can clearly hear Sebastian’s voice. The court behind them shuffles and whispers like nervous birds. The air, beginning to heat with the rise of the sun, smells of grass and dew on leaves. Conn places his hand steadyingly on Jim’s shoulder and Jim goes rigid, skin crawling underneath the touch. He wants to twist his head and bite Conn’s fingers, can perfectly picture the snap of bone and gush of blood onto his tongue.

"I call upon Coran of the many spells," Conn cries, ignoring Jim’s tense muscles under his comforting hand, "and of the cunning magic. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A man unseen has met us, and by his power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If you help us not, Connla will be taken from Tara by fae wiles and witchery."

The whispering crowd of courtiers stills, and then parts; splitting evenly to two sides in a liquid sway of silks. Between them is a man in white robes; a young man, with flaming hair and piercing grey eyes. Gold shines at his ears, at his throat, at his wrists. Beads of bone and glass chime against each other in the braids of his beard, and a wreath of ivy twines across his chest like a bandolier. Jim sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth and glances at Sebastian. Sebastian stares back, blank ignorance in his eyes.

Coran the Druid raises a hand towards the spot where Sebastian stands. The back of his wiry knuckles are stained with the same woad spirals that mark Sebastian’s chest. His mouth opens, and he begins to chant; difficult, twisting words, that Jim’s not sure he knows how to pronounce even as he hears them. There’s a cadence to his language - a lilting musicality - that tricks the ear; as though many voices were chanting, male and female, young and old. Sebastian flickers before him, like a heat mirage come too close. Jim fists his hands at his side, and looks up to the clear blue sky; refusing to watch.

There’s a wet thunk as the apple Sebastian throws lands in the dew-soaked grass at Jim’s feet. _For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing to eat or drink, save only that apple…_ Jim’s mamma whispers in his ear. _And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the one who appeared to him that day…_

Jim feels a sharp twist of humour cut into his throat and nearly chokes on it. _A mighty yearning._ Well, if nothing else, that suits Sebastian.

_\---------------------_

Thirty-one days come and go, Connla’s month of waiting. The first day is sandpaper in Jim’s lungs. The second is a relentless pressure under his skin. The third is a hollow knot twisted in the pit of his stomach.

_I can’t take it. I can’t wait._

Jim amuses himself pinging doves off the roof with Sebastian’s apple. By day six he’s an alright shot. By day fourteen he can be reliably counted on to whip around, apple balanced lightly between his fingers, and send it through the air with the grace of a major-league pitcher. There’s a severed beak and a fair spray of blood on Jim’s window sill. He doesn’t care. The copper and stone smell, like sacrifices in a temple, puts him to sleep at night. And the apple always comes back. No matter how far he throws it, how many times he watches a crescent of juice flare out from a battered, feathered corpse –

There it is.

Jim lies on his side in bed and stares at it, widening his eyes to suck in every available speck of light. The apple is perfect; slightly green still on one side, fading around to a pale pink blush on the other like it’s just been plucked from the tree. There’s a dullness to its shine that you never see in waxed supermarket apples; faint brown flecks like dimples on its skin. Looking at it makes Jim’s mouth water.

The inside flesh is crisp, white, and juicy.  It would part under his teeth with a crunch like bones under his heel, and the slightly-sour taste of it would flood his mouth –

Jim licks his lips. Hollow knot in the center of his stomach. Relentless pressure under his skin. He lies absolutely, flawless still, because he’s half sure if he moves it will send him bursting out of the fragile casing of his body. He’s not impatient; he’s humming. Vibrating. His fingers tingle, feeling cold, as if his circulation isn’t enough to warm them.

 _I’m **waaaaiting** , _he thinks, in Sebastian’s direction. He doesn’t stop to question when it became necessary to wait for Sebastian.

_\---------------------_

Jim stands by the side of the king his father on the Cliffs of Moher. Conn's torque gleams in the light, flashing against Jim's eyes. Conn's chin is raised, his face cold and impassive. Jim takes long, slow breaths, squeezing his eyes shut to stop a jumping muscle in his eyelid. He can't stop drumming his fingers against his thighs. He shifts his weight, back and forth, from the toes of his right foot to the heel of his left.

Jim opens his eyes and there he is; fine blonde hair jagged on his forehead, blue spirals down the broad, flat planes of his chest. The instant Sebastian meets Jim's eyes a spike of fury shoots from the back of Jim's mouth to his stomach, like a bad taste. He clenches his fists. _A month. A whole month._

Jim shakes his head, licks his lips, and smiles; thinking of Sebastian on his knees with the skin of his back flayed off, begging for forgiveness. "Getting a little bit sick of waiting for you, darling," he says pleasantly. Sebastian's eyes narrow at him, and Jim smiles sweetly back.

"'You hold a noble place as mortal prince," Sebastian says cautiously, watching Jim like a snake-charmer watches a king cobra, "Awaiting the day of death. But should you come with me to Moy Mell, you will hold a place with me forever."

_And she promised she would love him, and she swore they would rule in beauty together forever... and when he saw her love blossomed in his chest, although the month of waiting had been long and hard... and Connla knew then there would never be anyone like her, not ever again in the world..._

Jim knows this part of the story, can hear it in his mother's smoked-out drawl. He stares at Sebastian, and Sebastian stares blankly back; not knowing that Jim should be feeling. Like the sea made him grieve, like the broken tunnel made him lonely; if there was ever a place in this story for him to feel the oppressive weight of _human_ emotions, this is it. After all, the script calls for him to be in love.

 _Funny,_ Jim thinks, seeing the twitch of a smile at the corner of Sebastian's mouth, _But I don't feel any different._

At the sound of Sebastian's voice Conn stiffens at Jim's side. He turns in a whirl of cloak and shouts back to the his honour guard, "Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see the bewitched hills have again this day the power of speech."

Sebastian's hint of a smile turns into a smirk. He steps forward, muscles rippling under his painted skin, and spreads his hands palm up with an apologetic shrug, even though no one but Jim can see him. "Oh, Conn, High King, Victor of a Hundred Battles, the Druid's power is little loved, and it holds little power here. For it comes from the lips of a false black demon, and cannot stand in the light of my love. Let your son come with me, and before the sun sinks we will live together in joy."

Conn sighs, and rubs his chin. He glances at Jim and asks begrudgingly, "Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?"

"I'd like to see you _stop_ me," Jim replies, which is not _exactly_ what he's supposed to say, but he's a little bit beyond worrying about that now.

Conn opens his mouth _-_ to give his blessing, as it happens - but before he can speak a firm hand closes around Jim's arm, and Sebastian says, " _Fuck_ letting you decide."

The last thing Jim sees of the High Court of Tara as Sebastian pulls him away is Conn's face, round and open in shock.

_\---------------------_

Jim wraps his hand around Sebastian’s throat and slams him backwards into the rocks of the cliff with a snarl. Sebastian’s back arcs as the bones of his shoulders hit, arching him up and away so Jim has to dig his fingernails in to hold on. Sebastian gasps, losing the air in his lungs, and can’t draw more in past the iron grip Jim’s got on his throat. He chokes, twisting against the stone. Jim presses him harder, until something gives and Sebastian goes half-limp, knees sagging as he collapses backwards.

 _“Hands over your head,_ ” Jim hisses at Sebastian, “Grab the cliff, you hear me? And if you let go, pet, I’ll _cut them off_.”

Sebastian’s fingers scramble up above his head, fingernails scratching at the cliff, their light reflected on the wet black rocks. It draws his torso out in a long stretched line, woad patterns spiralling over tense muscles. Jim lets his hands slide downwards, over the hot skin of Sebastian’s ribs, down his vulnerable stomach to the sharp bones of his hips. Blue woad smears on his fingertips, painting them like ink. Against the pads of his fingers Sebastian is like stone himself, stiff and scared and wanting. Jim bends his head to Sebastian’s collarbone, drags the fragile skin in over his teeth. Sebastian tastes of salt and mist. His skin is covered in goose bumps, prickling in anticipation and when Jim digs in it resists his teeth; so he bites down harder, until he can feel capillaries pop and start to bleed under the pressure. Sebastian gasps, his hips pushing forwards, rutting against Jim. Jim shifts his weight forward, palms flat on rigid bone, slamming Sebastian back into the cliff. He can feel Sebastian’s breathless anticipation, the sharp rise and fall of Sebastian’s chest as he struggles for air. The power of it spins in Jim’s head, like ruling the world, like he could tear Sebastian’s throat out and Sebastian would just beg for more, more, more.

Jim lets his mouth trail down, licking a spiral down over the bare skin of Sebastian’s already damp chest, to his nipple. He scrapes his teeth over it, and Sebastian makes a short sound in his throat like Jim’s choking him again. His hips push against Jim’s hands, muscles twitching. He rises on the balls of his feet, spine twisted back, and Jim lifts his head to see Sebastian’s chin forced up; throat bared as Sebastian presses the crown of his head into the cliff. His lip is sucked in over his teeth, pink skin dented and flushed.

As if feeling his gaze, Sebastian’s eyes flick open, and he looks down his nose at Jim. His pupils have flooded nearly to his iris, mirroring the devouring dark inside of Jim. “If you _stop_ ,” he growls, defiant, sounding like he’s got a mouthful of gravel and dust.

“Don’t worry,” Jim purrs back. His tongue slides out and wets his top lip, as his thumb traces a circle on Sebastian’s hip, and he feels the larger man shudder, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Sebastian groans, shutting his eyes. The tendons in his arms twitch, as if he wants to let go of the cliff but doesn’t dare. There’s a fierce, triumphant surge in Jim’s chest, and he will never, _never,_ let anyone else see Sebastian like this; pinned, helpless, and desperate.

_I own you. Now. Always._

One of his hands snaps up, grabs Sebastian’s jaw, and forces it downwards.  Jim stretches up on his tiptoes with teeth bared, and crushes their lips together to seal his possession. It’s not nice and it’s not clean. He bites Sebastian’s lip open, salves his tongue over it until the taste of blood is thick in his mouth and then shoves it forward into Sebastian’s. Sebastian is moaning, and Jim devours the sound. His tongue twists around Sebastian’s as he presses forward, feeling the heat of Sebastian’s skin against his chest through a thin layer of fabric. Jim grinds them together, against the cliff, barely able to breathe for the hot pant of Sebastian’s mouth against his. Sebastian bites viciously at Jim’s bottom lip, giving every inch as good as he gets, and Jim isn’t sure – will never be sure – who’s blood it is he’s tasting.

Sebastian’s cock presses rigidly against Jim’s stomach, rubbing against him in short stilted motions as Sebastian arcs away from the cliff. Jim pushes a hand down between them, grabbing fistfuls of Sebastian’s kilt and rucking it up until he can wrap his fingers tight around the base of Sebastian’s cock. He’s rock hard, thin skin stretched tight on his shaft, veins pulsing under Jim’s fingers.

Sebastian has to break the kiss to drop his head to Jim’s shoulder, crying out. Jim twists, biting the skin of Sebastian’s neck, and it doesn’t matter if it bleeds or bruises but he has to _mark_ , has to make Sebastian _his_ for everyone to see.

“ _Jim –_ “ Sebastian pants, ragged, despairing.

“That’s it _,_ ” Jim croons, soothing, “That’s my good boy.” He strokes Sebastian, root to tip, and Sebastian shudders like Jim’s stabbed him through the stomach. His knees sag, shoulders and chest tensing further as his hands take his weight, until he’s drawn so taut Jim feels like he’s got Sebastian on the rack, pulling him apart. There’s precum gathering in Sebastian’s slit, slick and warm on Jim’s fingers, and on each stroke he spreads it with his thumb, until his fist slides nearly without friction.

Something to be said for kilts. Easy access. Jim’s own trousers are pressing painfully against his cock, the rough fabric torturous on his sensitive skin. There’s a pressing ache low in his stomach, and he can almost feel the front of his trousers getting damp near the tip of his cock. Sebastian gasps into his shoulder, forehead damp with sweat, pleading sounds forced from his chest. Jim grinds his hips forward against Sebastian’s thigh, awkwardly pressing against his own forearm. He wants Sebastian in him with a force that makes his skin prickle, so vivid he can almost imagine the hot full feeling of Sebastian fucking him.

_I want. I **need.** Maybe if we – _

Sebastian is starting to breathe in short sharp jerks, his cock twitching under Jim’s fingers. Jim immediately stops moving, closing his fist like a vise at the very base of Sebastian’s cock. Sebastian whines, hips jutting forward like a suggestion, but Jim squeezes until he’s sure Sebastian’s quite done with _that._

“Not _yet_ ,” Jim snaps irritably in Sebastian’s ear, hearing his voice come out breathy and deep, “Not until you’re _fucking_ me, _pet._ ”

As soon as he says it he knows it will happen – logistics don’t matter, nothing matters, nothing but Sebastian’s cock pressing deep inside him. And he _is_ going to have it. He lets go of Sebastian’s cock and steps backwards, tugging his shirt over his head.

“On your back in the grass. And _do_ keep your hands above your head.” Jim drops his shirt to the side and wags his finger at Sebastian warningly. “Threat of amputation still stands.”

Sebastian does as he’s told, hissing as the cold grass presses against his flushed skin. Jim strips the rest of the way, peeling fabric carefully away from his cock. He strokes himself as he steps out of his trousers, slow and languid, just taking the very edge off his own frustration. Sebastian, on the ground, snarls like an animal in a trap.

“Patience,” Jim chides him, smug. Sebastian’s cock lies hard against his stomach, and Jim can trace his frustration in the flush on his chest. The muscles in his thighs are jumping, knees twitching up as if making up for their earlier weakness.

Jim sinks down to straddle Sebastian, settling onto the firm warmth of Sebastian’s hip. Sebastian’s rigid erection fits perfectly underneath him, pressing hard against his balls and the bottom of his shaft. Jim cuts off a groan before it can leave his mouth, biting down on the tip of his tongue. He rocks himself backwards lazily, Sebastian thrusting up to meet him, and there’s a need and a _wanting_ so deep in Jim he wants to claw his own chest open to pull it out.

He snarls and shoves two fingers at Sebastian’s mouth. “ _Suck,_ ” Jim commands, short and barking. Sebastian opens obediently, and Jim’s fingers slide into the slick warmth of his mouth. Jim rocks backwards again, unable to help himself, as Sebastian’s tongue licks between his fingers. But Sebastian’s not giving him enough saliva to help, not if Jim plans to use it as lube.  Jim growls in frustration, and thrusts his fingers further down Sebastian’s throat. _If you want something done right…_

His hand fucks Sebastian’s mouth roughly until Sebastian gags on it, until Jim feels his fingernails scrape on the back of Sebastian’s throat. Thick saliva coats his fingers as Sebastian’s squeezed-shut eyes water; small, painful tears sliding down his cheekbones. Involuntary physical response, sure, but…

Jim leans forward to lick the tears from the corner of Sebastian’s eye.

_Mine. Mine. Mine._

Sebastian gags on Jim’s fingers, one last time, and Jim pulls them out. He crawls backwards down Sebastian’s body; dragging himself down the long line of Sebastian’s thigh to settle on his bony knee.

“Jim – “ Sebastian gasps again, unhelpfully.

“ _Patience,_ ” Jim hisses. “Now if you _come,_ pet, if you even get _close,_ I will _kill_ you.”

“What – “

Jim seals his mouth over the head of Sebastian’s cock.

“ _FUCK!”_

 _Not yet,_ Jim promises darkly, opening his eyes to look up at Sebastian as he swallows him down. Sebastian’s stomach swells as he breathes in deep through his diaphragm, and while his cock twitches against Jim’s tongue he manages to keep his hips from lifting off the grass. _Good._

Jim reaches back and pushes a finger inside himself; using the slight stretch as a distraction from his gag reflex as he pushes his nose down towards Sebastian’s stomach. It feels _weird,_ rather than good; but it will be good, and the second finger is enough to prove that. It feels like being split open. Jim’s skin is hot and tingling, and he half feels like he’s outside himself; watching. It makes everything better. Makes him feel like they’re on display, like he’s deconstructing Sebastian for a stage audience. It’s so typical that Jim mocks himself even as his gut roils in a slow, delicious burn; _exhibition, Jimmy, **really?**_ But he can hear the wet, slick noises as he works himself open, and the near-painful, full press of his fingers is hyper-real and overpowering.

Sebastian is making deep noises in the barrel of his chest, and Jim half wants to show him what a _real_ blowjob feels like – but that isn’t the point of this. He runs his lips loosely over Sebastian’s shaft, not worrying about friction or the occasional scrape of teeth.

Just getting him _wet._

Jim works his fingers inside himself, not trying for his prostate, just being quick. Frustration worms under his skin – the tight clamp of his muscles loosens so slowly Jim wants to scream. He presses his head down to the base of Sebastian’s cock, tongue working as much as it can pressed to the bottom of his mouth. His saliva pools on Sebastian’s skin, the smell of spit and cum and skin clouding his nose. The inside of Sebastian’s thigh twitches, pressing in against Jim’s chest.

“Please,” Sebastian chokes, sounding broken, sounding ruined. “Please.”

Jim considers it, sucking his way off Sebastian’s cock to focus on the last motions of his fingers. He’s not ready. Shoving Sebastian inside him is going to hurt, is going to _tear –_

Jim shudders in anticipation and pulls his fingers away. There’s a wet sound as they come free. Jim doesn’t quite know how he gets himself positioned back over Sebastian; there’s a white blankness to his thoughts, and the sense of urgency building in his stomach flies through his veins like a swarm of buzzing insects. His whole body is on fire, hungry for the touch of Sebastian’s skin, his mouth, his hands. Jim leans back, using one hand to guide Sebastian’s cock.

The breach of the tip into his body hurts like nothing else in the world, and somehow that makes the pleasure of it so much more that Jim has to bite the inside of his bottom lip, as if there’s not _enough_ pain. Sebastian stays where he is, panting. He stares up at Jim with wide eyes, lips parted in shock. Jim presses backwards, and Sebastian’s cock pushes deeper into him; sparks of pain and pleasure shooting down the muscles of Jim’s thighs to the balls of his feet.

But it’s not enough. Jim tries, and he can’t, and his cock aches and he’s just too tight to manage on his own. He plants his palms on Sebastian’s chest, trying for a better angle, and works himself up and down so the first inch of Sebastian’s cock thrusts inside him, inch by frustrating inch.

Sebastian stays where he is, feet planted, hips tilted up. Oh, he pants, he moans, he makes a face like Jim is burning him alive, but he doesn’t –  “Move!” Jim commands, frustrated desire making him dig his fingernails into his palms. Sebastian growls, air forced between his teeth. He shifts under Jim, and Jim opens his mouth to say –

Something, something to make Sebastian move –

But he doesn’t get it out in time.

Sebastian forces his cock up into Jim with one sharp, hard thrust, slamming into his prostate, and the pain and pleasure are so sudden and violent a scream rips its way out of Jim’s throat. He drops his head back, air driven from his lungs, and Sebastian thrusts up again; bare skin of his hips slapping flat against Jim’s ass, cock hitting hard deep inside Jim. Jim’s brain is a mess of white noise, of sensation without words. He feels impossibly full, unbearably open, and the pound of Sebastian’s cock against his prostate lights golden fire all across his brain. Jim digs his fingers into Sebastian’s chest and drops himself backwards down into Sebastian’s thrust, meeting each surge of his body with as much force as he can. He can’t seem to get enough oxygen. His skin feels thin, as if the boundaries between their bodies are disappearing, and he’s hot and his breath is ragged and sweat is sticky on each part of him that touches Sebastian, but he doesn’t care.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Sebastian, _yes,_ ” Jim hears himself breathe, barely recognizing his own voice gone hollow and greedy. His cock aches with neglect but he doesn’t realize it until somehow – _when did that happen?_ – he’s reaching down to take himself in hand. His cock is already slick under his fingers, lines of precum leaking from his slit and coating his fingers as he strokes himself. Sebastian’s pace is driving, brutal and desperate, his hips pistoning up into Jim with the unforgiving strength of selfishness. Chasing orgasm. _Taking_ Jim, _using_ him, fucking him with all the single-minded focus of an animal in heat.

Jim moans. He tightens his grip on himself, fisting in time to the pound of Sebastian’s cock against his prostate. His stomach feels tight, his thighs burning. Something in the back of his head presses forward for attention, a warmth, a desperateness that devours everything else in Jim’s head.

Sebastian moves faster, rocking Jim above him, head thrown back into the wet grass, breath caught in his throat. Jim feels Sebastian shudder on the next thrust, starting to lose it, but it doesn’t matter – nothing matters – nothing but that hungry need in his head and his stomach and his cock – and

_Oh – oh, that –_

_“ **Fuck**_!”

Heat and pressure and light, like a volcano’s gone off in Jim’s head. His cock pulses under his hand and he feels – vaguely, as if from a great distance – the gush of come over his fingers.

Jim barely hears Sebastian cry out his name.

_\---------------------_

“I know what it was that started this,” Sebastian says finally, stroking Jim’s temple with a single finger. Under his nail there’s a faint glow, like the last embers of a fire. He brushes Jim’s hair from his brow, staring at Jim with the eyes of a dog, dead in the road. “It was loving you.”

Jim bites the inside of his lip viciously and focuses on the metallic tang of blood, struggling for control. “So you’re okay touching me now that we’ve _fucked,_ ” he snipes, to cover his hard swallow. “Am I supposed to be _flattered?_ ”

“It’s not that and you know it.” Sebastian leans forward and nips Jim’s lip, making Jim hiss at the quick spark of pain. Sebastian leans back, studying Jim’s eyes. “It’s easier to control once you know. I think I could Send someone to a specific world, if I tried…” Sebastian falters, jaw working, as if the last half of the sentence sticks in his throat. Jim scowls at him.

“What?”

“You want revenge. On the person that Sent you. You want to escape. You want to go home. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

“Sebastian…” Jim says warningly.

Sebastian shakes his head. “You’ll go mad doing this forever,” he tells Jim with a faint smile. “Well, _more_ mad. You’ll lose yourself. I’ve seen it happen before – there was a woman Sent before you. Tried to blackmail… someone. I don’t know. She tried to tell me, got a few words out here and there. But when all her fighting didn’t get her more than that... She gave up. Got pulled under. Now she’s just… another background character.”

“I didn’t _fail,_ pet, and I _won’t._ I’ll find a way out. Don’t you dare doubt me, Sebastian,” Jim pitches his voice low and dangerous. He gives Sebastian his best dead-eyed stare, hoping Sebastian is smart enough to know Jim will rip his fingernails out for the suggestion. “Don’t ever presume to doubt me because _ordinary_ people can’t do what I can.”

Sebastian huffs, smiling, and runs the pad of his finger over a bruise on Jim’s neck. “No. I know.” His eyes trace down Jim’s chest, following the marks of his teeth. “I know…”

“Then why the hell are we having this little talk?” Jim rolls over on his back, away from Sebastian, shoving his shoulders up to his ears. _Conversation over._

Once again, he misses the brightening glow of Sebastian’s fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian whispers.

Jim gets halfway through turning when the world goes electric, splintering into a hundred thousand fragments of brilliant white light.

 

 


	9. Real World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warnings for gore and self-harm urges. The warnings are unrelated, ie., the gore is not self-harm.

Jim has woken up at Conduit Street a hundred thousand times before, but not like this. Never like this.

It takes him a moment, at first. He opens his eyes to the familiar cream trim against the white ceilings, the soft wave of mosquito netting around his bed. Underneath him the comforter is crisp-clean and fluffy, pillowing up luxuriously around his limbs. Jim never saved money by being uncomfortable.

The sunlight streaming in through the huge bay window is familiar, as is the smell of lemon furniture polish and burnt sugar and blood. Jim screws his eyes shut and rubs them, making sure they’re clear before he opens them again.

_Not dreaming. Oh, pet. What have you done?_

Jim sits up in his own bed and stares blankly down at the cell-phone on his bedside table. His mind is an unpleasant buzz, thoughts colliding with each other so fast that he can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. After a moment, he leans forward and picks up the phone. Presses the power button. The battery’s dead. _Should have guessed._

Jim sets the phone back on the bedside table, reaches around and swipes the charger cord from where it always falls by the side of the mattress. He plugs it into his phone, waits for the screen to light. The battery icon pops up, fully drained. Jim presses the power button in until his thumb goes white, holds it down. The phone vibrates in his fingers. His hands feel cold. Bloated numbness makes head feel curiously disconnected from his body. His brain is sloshing around loosely in his skull, unable to make contact with anything. Jim shakes his head, feeling it jiggle, trying to escape the inevitable fall into itching madness. _Not now._

His phone begins to vibrate with incoming messages. One. Six. Ten – thirty-four text messages, sixty-eight missed calls, fifteen voice messages. The date is a week after he was captured by Mycroft. Jim shuts his eyes and breathes. The overwhelming buzz in his head isn’t going away. He can’t _think._

He shakes his head violently, cracks his neck and knuckles, shakes out his hands.

_When I wake up tomorrow I’ll wake up in the same place._

The thought hits him out of nowhere and Jim inhales hard, involuntarily. He goes from not being able to identify any of the thoughts in his head to hearing them all at once, painfully loud, as if someone is screaming in his ear.

_And Sebastian won’t ever be here and you won’t ever go forward –_

_There’s no happy ending and there’s no way to move and you can’t fix it and you can’t change and you can’t win you just go on go on go on go on go on –_

_On and on and –_

Jim slams his hands hard over his ears, screws up his eyes, and _screams_ , but as much as he tries he can’t escape his own mind. There’s a pressure on the inside of his sternum that doesn’t want to let him stay still. Frustrated, he bounds to his feet and stalks over to the closet. He pulls out a dove-gray Huntsman, single-button, neatly pressed. The thin white shirt and crisp, heavy jacket settle rigidly over his shoulders. Jim straightens the cuffs. There’s a confining feeling to the suit that makes him feel halfway capable of thought again. He runs both his hands through his hair, slicking it back, then takes a pair of sunglasses off the shelf and slides them on. When he faces himself in the closet mirror, he looks cool and rich and powerful. _Untouchable._ He tilts his chin at himself in the mirror, and scowls to look tough. It makes him feel a teeny bit better, so he nods; ready. _Alright, then._

Jim grabs his phone as he heads for the door, and dials his voice-mail.

First message. “Hi – it’s um. Dave.” _That clammy man from the first national bank._ “My wife’s dead, you said the detective would be out of the way. Please, if you could call –“ _Monday. Too late now, sorry little man._ Delete. Second message. “Hi – it’s uh – it’s – one of – I mean I hired you to – “ Delete.

Jim is already burning under his skin from the sheer _annoyance_ of it all.

_\------------_

He strolls down Conduit – past all the clothing stores, gleaming mannequins in the windows staring down at him with mouthless faces. By the time he’s reached the shop at the corner, he’s gone through all his voice-mails – most of them clients, which he’s going to ignore and abandon. What’s the fun in ruling the world if you can’t tell all the little people to go hang occasionally? There’s a few points of interest. Caraceni’s finished his suit. Adler’s called twice, and wants dinner, because apparently even _death_ doesn’t stop the girl from being annoying.

Jim sighs and pauses on the pavement, leaning against the wall as he deletes all his missed calls. Anyone that didn’t care enough to leave a message doesn’t _deserve_ a call back. The text messages can wait. He glances up at the shop on the corner, licks his lips, and slides a hand through his hair.

_Routine. Won’t it be nice, doing something familiar again?_

_Shop on the corner, flirt with the shop girl, buy a diet coke._

Jim is already anticipating the moment when the blade bites down and he no longer has to think about Sebastian.

He schools his face into his best dizzying-and-slightly-empty smile, slipping into the preening swagger of Jim-the- boutique-manager. Katy, the shop girl, thinks he runs sales. Jim hasn’t bothered to tell her he owns most of the buildings on the street, through one influence or another. It would only upset her.

He puts his hand flat on the door of the shop, pushes inwards. The bell rings. Jim smiles dazzlingly over at the counter, mouth already open to chirp, “ _Katy! I missed you – good to see you –_ ”

It dies in his mouth as the shop attendant straightens. _Not_ Katy. A blond man, young and carefully styled, with an arrogance to his face like he knows how attractive he is. Jim keeps the megawatt smile up and saunters over to the counter, leaning on an elbow against the plastic over the lottery tickets. He can see a tattoos disappearing down the side of the blonde’s neck under his store-issue polo, more on his exposed forearms. _Anthony,_ according to his name tag.

 _Gay,_ according to the way his dark eyebrows raise, brown eyes raking down Jim’s torso. Jim shouldn’t be disappointed Anthony dyes his hair, but there you are. People are just disappointing. _At least flirting will still be able to distract **peacock** here long enough to get the razors_.

“Can I help you?” Anthony says when Jim does nothing but lean on the counter and smile. His voice is a smoked-out growl, slurring the first word down to nothing but a hard catch on the back of his tongue.

“Mm,” Jim responds, licking his lips, “I hope so.” He pulls his shades off and looks up through his lashes, knowing it makes him look more feminine. “Anthony, right? You must be new.”

“Tony, actually. And yeah. I am.” _Tony_ walks over to where Jim’s standing. He has to lean down a satisfying distance to cross his arms on the counter and lean on them. It makes Jim think of Sebastian, pinned up against the cliff, how neatly Jim could have fit under Sebastian’s chin.

_Don’t._

Tony’s movement places them on a level, just this side of uncomfortably close for strangers. Jim puts his sunglasses in his pocket, freeing both his hands, and keeps his smile in place. The backs of Tony’s hands are tattooed; black bishop on his right hand, black knight on his left, over two blue stars of David.

“What happened to Katy?” Jim asks casually, to satisfy his own curiosity. Jim had always meant to find her a place in the empire as a joke. Get her all hired up in a corner office with a view, making thousands for nothing, then stroll in and tell her who she owed it all to. She was a sweet thing after all, all tip-toes and bouncy smiles. Jim had looked forward to twisting her sideways.

Tony shrugs. “Bigger and better things, I guess.”

“So they just left you here alone?” Jim moves around to mimic Tony’s posture. It’s a subtle physical sign of interest, that puts his thigh between the camera and razor blades at the front counter. Tony’s lips twitch up a little, and Jim knows he’s hooked.

“Yeah. Just me.”

“God, I hate working on my own,” Jim lies. “Sucks to be you. They at least give you your breaks?”

“Not always,” Tony admits, grinning. His smile is wide, and flashing, and startlingly white. Jim’s chest hurts. He _needs_ those blades… Tony scratches behind his ear, glances up around the store – _no one else in here –_ and back at Jim. “Sorry, you’re…?”

“Jim.” On mad impulse, rather than lying, Jim adds, “I own a building down the street.”

Tony’s eyebrow’s raise in mild disbelief. “Well, lucky _you_ then.”

Jim smiles, sliding his hand down to the razorblades. “Yeah, sure beats minimum waging,” he teases lightly. “I guess if you gotta do it…”

Tony shrugs again, shoulders rippling under his cheap shirt. _Christ,_ if all muscular men are going to start reminding Jim of Sebastian, he’s going to rip his eyeballs out.

“I don’t, actually. I don’t need the job at all, only my mom wanted me to take it so I didn’t sit at home picking on the help. Hey –“

Tony sucks his lip in over his teeth, pink skin denting down. His fingers tap nervously on his arm. Jim’s hand pauses on the hard plastic edge of a razor’s packaging. Sebastian runs in his mind like a refrain.

Taking his hesitation for encouragement, Tony scratches behind his ear again nervously. It messes up his blonde hair. Jim’s stomach clenches.

“I get off at eight tomorrow,” Tony supplies. “There’s usually a good crowd at the Stag. We could walk down, even.”

Tony watches Jim closely to see his reaction to the name of the popular gay bar. If that’s not a proposition, Jim doesn’t know what is.

Jim feels his face go cold. “I don’t do clubs.”

 _– but I’d take_ _Sebastian onto the dance floor and grind myself into him ‘til he’s scowling and frustrated and tense, ‘til he’s growling and he doesn’t care who sees us in the alley –_

“Okay,” Tony responds, crestfallen, thinking he’s wrong about Jim being gay, “Not for everyone. I get it. I’ll live.”

_Yeah. You will. You’ll live, which is the problem, because **you’ll** live, you’ll be here, and Sebastian won’t – _

Just like that, Jim knows what he’s going to do. “But,” he purrs, leaning forward to run his fingers over Tony’s bare arm, “I do live _quite_ close.” He’s going to take Tony home, and fuck him. He can see the strength in Tony’s shoulders, the deadly line of insecurity in the way Tony preens himself. It’ll be easy to split him open and pick him apart.

And kill him, for not being Sebastian.

_\------------_

Jim meets Tony outside the shop at eight. The sun’s just setting and it’s cold, but not freezing. Jim’s shrugged a leather jacket on over skinny jeans, looks club-gay, and hates himself for it. Tony pops out of the shop, giving over to another girl – long red hair, center part, too much eyeliner.

Jim gives him a grin so obvious it counts as a proposition. “Don’t you look good,” he purrs, playing up appreciation.

Tony shrugs, acting casual, although he’s not. “Thanks,” he says, “Got a mate to bring me spare clothes.”

Skin-hugging, semi-translucent black muscle shirt, black jeans so tight they count as foreplay, and cherry-red shoes with the sheen of leather.

“Well _thank_ him for me.”

Tony laughs. His tattoos cover all his exposed skin, up and down his arms. Some of them are so close to his skin tone they don’t look like anything more than shadows. Jim likes that; it looks like hallucinations are written on Tony’s arms. He wants carve them out and hang them up as art, he thinks, although they might look tacky on the walls.

“Shall we?” Jim asks, all sugar.

“Lead on.”

Tony gestures Jim forward and they amble down Conduit Street together, comfortably close. Jim scowls inwardly as they make polite small-talk – the weather, a bad customer Tony’d had earlier, the gym. It’s shallow and bile-inducing and Jim only half pays attention.

He’s reasonably certain Sebastian didn’t get his muscles at a gym. He’s reasonably certain Sebastian would have hauled the asshole customer over the counter, snarled in his face instead of meekly trying to please. _Sebastian_ would –

Tony bumps his shoulder against Jim’s. “Hey. Where are you?”

“Oh.” Jim blinks. He thought he’d been paying enough attention, but apparently not. Tony raises his perfectly groomed eyebrows at Jim. They’re two buildings down from Jim’s, now. “Sorry…”

“Look, if you’d rather I not come home with you, that’s cool. It’s good. I’m not going to force myself – ”

“Kiss me.”

Jim raises his chin to meet Tony’s startled eyes, challenging. Tony recovers, laughs, and raises his fingers to brush Jim’s cheek. “That how this is?”

“That’s how it is.”

“Okay,” Tony says, stepping in closer so Jim can feel the heat of his body, “I can work with that.”

He runs his fingers over Jim’s jaw to his collar, wraps his hand around the back of Jim’s neck. Jim shuts his eyes and leans forward, feeling Tony’s other hand slide up his chest.

“You’re so small.” Tony’s smile is a breath of air on Jim’s lips. “I feel like I should throw you over my shoulder and haul you off, caveman style.”

_Oh, do you._

Jim says nothing. Tony’s lips brush against his – tentative, at first, but that doesn’t last. He kisses Jim with all the quick and dirty passion of a gay bar, in the middle of Conduit Street. Jim matches him; he has to hold back a few of his more violent urges, although Tony’s probably not sharp enough to tell.

_Those lips between my teeth, darling…_

Tony groans and pulls back. His eyes are flooded, and his look at Jim is flatteringly dazed. “Well, damn,” he says, after a brief pause.

“Take me home,” Jim commands.

“Abso _lute_ ly.”

Jim guides Tony into the Conduit Street flat with a hand on the small of his spine, sizing it for a knife. Tony whistles as they enter the hall – looking around at the honey coloured wood floors, the luxurious carpets, the diamond gleam of the chandeliers. He grins, and shakes his head at Jim – blonde hair nearly blending in to the white walls of the flat.

– _Sebastian would just mock me for needing such a posh place –_

“Sure you don’t want a rent-boy?” Tony asks. Jim forces himself to smile, cocking his head in a way he knows is endearing.

“You don’t even know if you like me yet.”

“I think I like you fine,” Tony replies, stepping away from the bright, airy flat to curl his arm around Jim’s waist. Jim feels himself drawn closer and rises up on his tip-toes to meet the kiss Tony drops on his lips.

Too bad it leaves him utterly cold.

“This place come with a bedroom?” Tony asks, when they come up for air.

“Fully functional,” Jim responds, and drags him to it.

\------------

Tony’s tattoos stop at the shoulder, curving around the joint of his arm and the base of his neck like guidelines for where they could be cut off. He drops his shirt to the floor and turns back to Jim, pulling him forward. His arms wrap around Jim, hands hot as he pushes at the fabric of Jim’s shirt. Jim helps him strip it off; lets Tony kiss him hungrily, detaching his mind as his body comes alive. His skin tingles as Tony’s mouth traces down his chest, sucking wet bruises into his neck. Jim tangles his fingers in Tony’s blonde hair, hears himself gasp as if at a great distance.

He’s thinking of wet grass, of stone between Sebastian’s shoulder blades.

_I’ll whip him bloody for leaving –_

_If he apologizes nicely I’ll let him stay in my bed after, stain the sheets red –_

Tony pushes Jim back towards the bed, and Jim stumbles until he feels it hit the back of his thighs. He fumbles at the button of his jeans, tugs them and his pants down over his thighs and kicks them off onto the soft white carpet. Tony takes a shallow breath, hissing over his teeth, and plants his hands on Jim’s shoulders to push him back onto the bed. Jim looks up at him, lets his lips part, giving Tony a wide-eyed look he _knows_ will beg to be debauched.

Tony groans. “What are you _doing_ to me, Jim?” he asks.

_If only you knew._

Jim reaches up and pulls Tony down on top of him. Tony reaches awkwardly down between them to unbutton his trousers. His knuckles brush against Jim’s cock, sending sparks through Jim’s brain that are a welcome distraction from Jim’s thoughts.

_\- Sebastian on the end of my bed, thick African heat, **I’m two-for-three with husbands now** with an easy smile to hide how he can’t stand to see anyone touch me – _

“Hurry – “ Jim pants, because being wrecked is the best excuse for not talking he can think of. Tony presses open-mouthed kisses to Jim’s neck and shoulders as he squirms, trying to get his trousers off. “ _Now –_ “

“Working on it,” Tony gasps, and finally manages to struggle out of his trousers and let them drop off the end of the bed. “Fuck,” he half-stills, rising a fraction of an inch away from Jim. “Jim, I don’t have a condom – “

“Don’t _care_ ,” Jim hisses, and hauls him back down. _I need it, hot blood and life and, oh, darling, if you knew how Sebastian had fucked me you wouldn’t believe I’m stooping to you._ Tony’s skin presses against Jim’s in a long hard line, all the way down Jim’s body. Jim shudders despite himself, and makes a soft helpless sound in the back of his throat to urge Tony on. Tony groans, rutting forward against Jim’s hip. His cock slots alongside Jim’s, thrusting against him, skin silk-smooth over the hard flesh. _Might even be enough –_ Jim throws his head back, forcing himself to close off everything but sensation. His mind feels dark as he purposefully shuts himself down, cutting off thought.

He grabs at Tony’s hips, hauling him down harder, needing more. Tony curses, a rasping sound at Jim’s ear, and shoves a hand between them again; this time it wraps around their cocks, holding them both together in a grip so tight it’s almost painful.

This time the noise Jim makes is half honest.

He drops his hands from Tony’s hips and claws them through the sheets. Tony pants, teeth sinking into the skin of Jim’s neck, a grounding note of pain in the build of pleasure. Jim gasps, shuddering. His hands above his head now, sliding under the pillow. Wrapping around a slender stiletto blade. Jim’s orgasm builds in his gut as Tony fucks them hard into his fist, a purely physical thing, a heat in Jim’s groin that can’t reach high enough to touch his heart or his mind.

“Jim – “ Tony pants, lips moving on Jim’s shoulder, “If we keep doing this – fuck, you’re gunna make me – “

_I couldn’t care less._

It’s the last clear thought Jim has before he lets himself go, mind blank and drifting as he arcs rigidly upwards and Tony pumps his come onto his stomach. Muscles in his stomach and legs twitch, and his hand clenches hard around the knife.

_White-out._

Jim takes a deep breath, then sighs, relaxing back into the sheets. He gives himself a few minutes to rest in the afterglow, barely feeling Tony’s continued movement over him. Tony grunts something into Jim’s ear, that Jim doesn’t care enough to hear. It doesn’t matter anymore.

When Tony’s movements are growing frantic, Jim slides his hand out from under the pillow. _If you think you’re coming on me, peacock –_ Tony misses Jim’s hand raising. He certainly doesn’t miss the knife set at his throat; but well, by that point, it’s far too late. Jim shuts his eyes and presses hard upwards. The skin of Tony’s throat resists for a fraction of a millisecond: like it’s not going to let the knife dig in. Then there’s no resistance at all, and Jim jerks the blade across with a ripping, sucking sound, followed by the wheeze of air in Tony’s newly opened throat.

Blood hits Jim’s face and neck in a thick arterial mist, coating him to the hollow of his throat. It’s damp on his lips, his cheeks. He can feel it drip down over his chin. Tony makes gurgling noises, trying to scream and lacking several vital parts. His body jerks against Jim - naked skin now slick and sliding - then collapses forward in a twitching slump.

Jim lets Tony’s death throes press him back into the bed, drifting on afterglow and the warm press of Tony’s weight on his chest. It takes six seconds to die of a slit throat, and Tony spends them pulsing out a thick wet mess of gore over Jim’s shoulders and back. Tony’s gone silent; Jim breathes slow and steady, feeling the last twitches go out of his corpse.

 _Serves him right,_ Jim thinks, then sighs. He wipes the goop from his eyes before he opens them; and with an effort rolls out from under Tony’s corpse. Limp limbs drag at him as he wrestles his way free. When Jim finally stands, shivering as cooling blood runs down his spine and the back of his legs, it lies flaccidly on the bed. Tony had a pale ass, and hairy thighs, and a mole on the back of his hip. Jim stares at it for a moment; _it,_ that a moment ago had been human. Had been handsome. Had grinned, quick and sharp –

_And now no one will ever see you again. How do **you** like it?_

_Serves you right for looking like –_

Jim grabs his phone and speed-dials the cleaning crew.

“There’s something nasty in my bed, boys,” he tells them dully, “I’m going to step in the shower. _Do_ something about it, would you?”

Jim hangs up without waiting for a response. He sets the phone down on the bedside table, looks down at himself, and makes a face. _Ugh._ Shower it is.

He’s deliberately not thinking about what he’s just done, or why. Under his feet the carpet stains red, a thin trail of footprints leading to the en suite. He trusts the cleaning crew to get the bloodstains out.

They have plenty of experience, after all.

\------------

Jim is scrubbing at his hair with a towel when his phone rings. He pads naked back into the bedroom, ignoring the men in hazmat suits cleaning the carpet and replacing the mattress. The corpse is gone, but there’s a two foot stain on the bed.

“Might want to get the bathmats, while you’re here,” Jim mentions, as he picks up his phone. No one looks at him. No one acknowledges that he’s said anything, except one bright-yellow figure stands and disappears into the en suite.

_Ah, efficiency._

“Yes, hello.” Jim tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear, strolling over to the closet.

“Knew you couldn’t stay disappeared, darling,” Adler says, cool voice only a little distorted by the phone. “Invisible doesn’t suit you.”

“Shouldn’t be calling people from the gra-ave,” Jim sings back.

“Couldn’t help myself. Somebody whispered something in my ear about you. One of the Iceman’s little boys.”

Jim scowls. “Spilling secrets to a whore? You just can’t find good help these days.” His voice comes out mocking with just a thread of menace. He flips through his suits, calculating in his head. Adler’s a wildcard now that Sherlock’s in the mix, but Jim’s always enjoyed throwing a joker in the deck.

_If only she wasn’t so **dull** …_

“Oh, don’t act so cross.” Adler sounds just a hair nervous under her brave words. “We should talk. You need me.”

“ _No_ ,” Jim hisses abruptly into the phone, with a quick sizzle of anger in his mouth, hands stilling on his suits. “And you don’t want to say that again, you really don’t.”

Properly cowed, Adler adds, “Well, fine. You don’t. But I need you, and I’m good at being useful.”

Jim rolls his eyes and pulls out the Huntsman from yesterday. Adler doesn’t merit Jim paying attention to perfect costuming.

_Besides, it’s a little bit funny, isn’t it, I met Tony in this suit and look what happened to him. Well, they can’t all go that smoothly –_

“You’d better come over, then,” Jim snaps, cutting off his thoughts. “I’m _wai-ai-ting._ ”

_\------------_

“Oh,” Adler purrs when Jim opens the door, “Well, well. That _is_ a new look on you, Jim.” Her deep purple lips don’t part to show teeth as she smiles, and her eyes are calculating.

Jim doesn’t allow himself to raise a hand to where, over the collar of his shirt, a bruise is starting to form. It would just look like weakness. “Hardly a virgin,” he drawls calmly back, “ _So_ sorry to disappoint. I know you’ve got a taste for them.”

Adler flinches, as he knew she would. Jim’s glad Sherlock managed to drive a wedge into her heart; splitting her open is so much easier these days. Her face goes pale, draining of blood, but she recovers quickly.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Should I?”

“It would only be polite. Besides, we’ve got things to discuss.”

“ _Do_ we.” Jim steps out of her way, letting her into the flat. Adler clicks neatly over the hardwood floor towards the living room, letting her coat slide gracefully off her shoulders as she does. The movement is liquid, sleek, and sultry. Jim would be more impressed if he didn’t know she practiced. “What exactly do we have to talk about?” He shuts the door and follows her, not bothering with the lock. Jim rarely locks his doors; he doesn’t need to.

“Holmes,” Adler says, sinking neatly onto the couch. She crosses her legs at the knee, showing off her scarlet peep-toe pumps, along with most of her thigh. Jim rolls his eyes and sits across from her. There’s a bottle of wine already chilled at the table between them, and two glasses; Irene Adler hasn’t woken up early enough to surprise Jim a day in her life.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, “But I thought the last time I trusted you with the Holmes, you went and burst your _ovaries._ ”

To her credit, Adler just sniffs and leans forward to pour them both wine. “And here I thought we both understood Sherlock’s appeal. Unfortunately, no, I’m not proposing _either_ of us play with him. Certainly not together. Although…” She settles back, swirling wine in her glass, and gives the bruise on his neck a pointed look. “If I’d known you weren’t entirely untouchable…”

Jim arches his eyebrows at her pointedly. He doesn’t touch the wine. “Friendly warning, dear. That’s quite far enough.”

“I just never considered the possibility we might play at something other than murder,” Adler goads, with a challenging smile.

Jim reaches calmly forward and wraps his fingers around Adler’s wrist. He can feel her pulse start to speed, and smiles inside his head; although he’s careful to keep his face outwardly bland. As Jim guides her hand gently towards the table, placing her wineglass down, Irene’s eyes dart back and forth over his face. She’s trying desperately to read his game, Jim knows. But she’s not quite that sharp.

Her glass taps against the wood of the tabletop. “Let go,” Jim commands quietly, and she does. Jim guides her wrist again – she’s leaning forward, now, neatly uncrossing her legs so she can sit up. He knows she’s thinking fast, trying to calculate what he’s doing; wondering if she’s pushed too far, considering the gun in her purse at her side. “Palm flat over the top of your glass, now, dear.” Adler does as he says, again, stalling. Jim lets go of her wrist, and she keeps her hand where it is. “No, really, you’re doing so well,” he tells her, playing up his accent mockingly. She blinks at him, mascaraed lashes flicking against her cheeks as she tries to figure him out. Jim stands and ambles over to the kitchen. From the corner of her eye, he can see her fingers twitch; wondering if she should take them off the glass.

But Adler knows better.

Jim clatters through the kitchen cupboards, tossing knives and pokers roughly out of his way until he finds what he’s looking for in an out-of-the-way drawer by the pantry. Adler’s listening; Jim can feel the way her attention pricks at the air, breathless and apprehensive. He curls his hand around his prize and tugs it out; ignoring the wire cutters he knocks out over the kitchen tiles.

Adler probably thinks he’s rattling pots and pans around. But what’s the point of being God of the criminal underworld if you still have to cook for yourself? _No._ Jim’s fingers curl tight around the handle of the blood-stained mallet he’s looking for. _Clearly, the kitchen is for a different set of tools._

Jim straightens and strolls back to the living room. When Adler sees what he’s got in his hands her eyes go wide and terrified. Jim is uncomfortably reminded of Sebastian, and shoves it down so hard he can hear something snap inside him. Adler’s fingers twitch on the wineglass, fine hair on her arms standing up in fear.

“Don’t bother to move,” Jim drawls at her, grinning, “I wouldn’t want to make it worse. Well. I _would,_ but I promise not to if you stay still.”

She freezes.

“Good girl. Daddy’s very happy with you now.” Jim leans over her. He lines the mallet up with the back of her hand, over the wineglass. He can see the deep burgundy liquid start to ripple as Adler trembles. He grins at her. She bites her lip, skin tenting inward. Her skin flushes in two spots over her cheekbones, startling against her deathly white face.

“Actually – You know – ” Jim raises the mallet. “I think Daddy might be _very **fucking** cross!”_

The mallet slams down, blurring through Jim’s vision. It hits her hand and doesn’t stop, jerking her pale face forward as she’s pulled down towards the table by the force of the blow. The wineglass, caught between her palm and the table, shatters into a thousand fragments. Only a quarter-inch of the stem is left, driven into the palm of Adler’s hand. A sharp shattering noise arcs through the air; followed, like an echo, by a very soft whimper of pain. Adler’s jerks her hand back, recoiling it into her chest. She’s gasping. The base of the wineglass remains on the table, with its quarter inch of stem stained crimson. It swims in a spreading pool of burgundy, starting to drip over onto the priceless Azerbaijani rug. Jim casts the mallet aside, and turns back to Adler with a pleasant smile. She stares at him.

Carefully, considerately, measuring each movement to be deliberately nonchalant, Jim sits back down and picks up his wine. “You were saying?”

Adler bites back whatever she’s thinking about. Red drops from her hand onto her cream dress, staining the lap of it in splattered clumps.

Jim sighs. “You’re a _painslut for hire,_ Adler. Don’t play weak now.”

“Very well,” she snaps back, all thin icy politeness, cradling her injured hand between her breasts, “I heard you want Mycroft.”

“And where did you hear that?”

“Where do I hear everything? I don’t care why. I want to help. If it takes down Mycroft Holmes – “

Jim sips his wine, considering. Adler’s face, although she’s struggling to keep cool, betrays her anger. Very real. Very personal. “What have you got against Holmes, I wonder?” he muses out loud, watching her. “No, don’t tell me… Sherlock saved you, but it was big brother that gave you a lethal sending off. My, my.” Jim shakes his head, smiling, enjoying the taste of her situation in his mouth more than the wine. “Do you think if big brother’d arranged amnesty, Sherlock would let you take him on his chair? Oh, yeah. You thought he’d have you. After all, you wanted him so _much_ ; you thought it had to be enough.” She opens her mouth to protest and Jim cuts her off. “Don’t be silly, of course you did, foolish girl.”

Adler’s lips tighten until they almost disappear completely. There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the slow drip of blood onto her lap. She’s glaring at him with cold murder in her eyes, but she hasn’t gotten up yet and Jim’s not afraid she’ll slip her leash. It’s _Adler_ , after all, the silly little chit threw it all away for a pretty face –

_–he shuts his eyes, scar a single line from his fine blonde hair by his pale lashes to his open lips, gasping, his throat bared, his voice breaking on Jim’s name –_

Jim shuts his eyes, a blink that lingers just a heartbeat too long, and opens them again. Refusing to think of that now. His fingers tap against his thigh as he sets his wineglass down.

“Okay, dear,” he sings finally, all smiles and relentless good cheer to cover the lurching hollowness that Sebastian’s memory triggers in him, “You can help, I suppose. If you’re good. Here’s how it works. I want you to be my little birdy. I want stories.” He holds up a finger, forestalling her in case she’s already sniffing for a weakness in his network of spies. “But not real ones, this time. No, no. You’re out to find me fairy-tales. I want strange sightings. Whoo-hoo stories from funny old grannies. Myths and bed-time tales.”

Adler blinks at him, confused. Jim grins his widest, toothiest smile at her, knowing it makes her uncomfortable.

“You’re going to tell me everything _anyone_ says about Aberrants.”

_\------------_

That night, Jim dreams. It’s familiar, now. The weight of the Sig Saur in his hand. The roughness of the grip under his palm. The sharp dig of the hammer as he thumbs it back.

Sebastian’s near-white hair pricking at the base of his spine, although this time he’s shirtless. And it’s not the warehouse floor, but Jim’s bedroom. Tiger-stripe scars run over the tanned skin of Sebastian’s shoulders, over his back. The muscles in his arms strain and shiver. Jim drags the muzzle of the gun downwards, through a thin sheen of sweat.

“Don’t leave me,” Sebastian says.

Jim jams the gun hard into his spine, making Sebastian jerk forward. “You _cast me out!_ ”

“I had to save you.” Sebastian’s presses himself back into the muzzle of Jim’s gun. “Please, Jim –”

Jim slides his finger down over the trigger. He can’t remember if the safety’s on. “You aren’t _here_ , Sebastian. You were supposed to come back and rule the world with me. And you _betrayed_ me.”

Sebastian’s head sags forward. He doesn’t try turning around. “Please,” he begs, brokenly.

Jim pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is so startlingly loud Jim thinks it should really wake him up, but it doesn’t. Sebastian jerks forward on his knees, but doesn’t fall. A neat round hole opens in the back of his head, starting to bleed slowly; nothing more than slow dark trickles through his hair. In front of him, the carpet splatters with blood in thick vicious strands. Sebastian sways, and Jim keens – thinking he’s about to fall.

But he doesn’t.

He turns around, blue eyes finding Jim. He’s got a slit throat, dried blood caked to his neck and chest. Jim recoils, horror pounding hard in his mouth. He can feel himself writhing on the bed sheets, somewhere distant and unimportant. In front of him, the dark red of dried blood flakes on Sebastian’s skin. Jim reaches out, hands shaking, as if he can press the dreadful wounds shut again. Sebastian’s lips start to form his name. If Sebastian says it out loud, Jim knows for a surety, he can’t take it. He’ll shatter. An uncontrollable horror washes over Jim, so dark and consuming he feels like he’ll never escape; and he fears he will never, ever wake up.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“I don’t know why you _wanted_ this trash.”

Irene throws the files down on his desk and crosses her arms. Paper spills out of one, sliding over Jim’s laptop keyboard. His fingers pause. He stares at the screen for a second and breathes, very slowly, in and out.

_Don’t kill her. Don’t kill her. Don’t kill her._

“Irene,” he grits, through his teeth, “Don’t you have something better to do? Rabid dog to pet? Shark-infested waters to swim in?”

“ _Funny,_ ” she tells him, taking a seat across from the desk without being asked.

Jim presses his eyes closed and counts very firmly to ten. He doesn’t deserve to deal with this crap. He’s a perfectly reasonable boss. Not having to _deal with this crap_ isn’t asking too much, in his opinion.

“This had better be good.”

“Well, it’s not,” she shoots back, crossing her legs at the knee. Lace Jimmy Choos, today: black and rough against her perfectly smooth skin. “Nothing but gossip. I _do_ work better when I know what I’m doing. If you wanted something particular...”

“I’ll know what I need when I find it,” Jim says idly, finally picking up a paper from the mess on his desk. He scans it. _\- one Sent can be reclaimed by the burning of rosehips and garlic at the site of their disappearance, although this method has been –_ “And don’t act put-upon, dear, you _never_ know what you’re doing.”

“You trusted me with the Holmes.”

He glances up at her sharply. “And look where that got us. Do you need another reminder?” He lets his eyes slide down to her hand. She’s wearing shining satin gloves, but he can pick out the bumps of a bandage beneath.

“Don’t be so crude,” she replies calmly. Anyone but Jim would miss the pulse of fear in her throat. He doesn’t, of course, and it pacifies him enough to go back to the mess she’s made on his desk.

As he reads he can see her toe tapping impatiently. _Tough._

- _As the few people who have reportedly returned from an Aberrant’s Sending have been entirely insane, it is perhaps safer to assume that a Sending merely kills the subject –_

“Is that what happened to you?”

Jim looks up. Irene’s dark eyes are narrowed, mascaraed lashes nearly touching her eyebrows as she watches him closely.

Jim keeps his face blank. “Sorry?”

“You’re already insane, darling, what’s to stop you from coming back from a Sending?”

“ _Brilliant,_ really,” Jim drawls, flipping to the next paper. “Only three people in history manage, and you think I’m one of them? Very flattering…”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“You’re different lately,” she muses. Jim looks up. Irene has her chin resting in one hand, tapping blood red fingernails against her jaw as she watches him. “I don’t think anyone else would notice, but it _is_ my job. You’re tense in all the wrong places for you.”

“And where would that be?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I might say you had a heart.”

“Irene, dear, you’re moving from obtuse right in to _stupid._ Stop talking.” Back down to the papers again. Does he get paid enough for this? Jim makes a mental note to give himself a raise.

_\- less commonly held is the belief that Aberrants can be made, as well as born… a specific set of circumstances has been theorized for the creation of Abberants… -_

Jim tries not to think about Sebastian, on his back in the Irish grass. _It was loving you…_

“Just wondering why you’re so interested in fairy-tales all of a sudden,” Adler says innocently, leaning back in her chair.

“Strike one,” Jim says, without looking up.

\- _as, however, there is no practical test for the emotion of ‘true love,’ it must be discounted from scientific studies –_

“Unless Mycroft Holmes has gotten significantly better at torture since I met him last.”

“Strike two.”

“ _Really,_ James, we’re not _children._ ”

Jim’s eyes snap upwards, glaring. She has a calm smile on her crimson lips. “You really are _begging_ for it today, Adler.”

She leans forward - legs uncrossing - the heel of her shoe clicking down on the floor. “I’m also _right._ You don’t do anything without a purpose. You never have. If you’d found an Aberrant under your control, you’d be asking him. If you’d finally managed to make one, you’d be ecstatic. But you gave up that hobby of yours as soon as you realized you couldn’t make it work. I _know_ you. You’re not crazy, despite what people say. You don’t do things without a reason.”

“I thought I was insane,” Jim says, reasonably calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Said it yourself.”

“Psychotic, yes. Stupid? No. You’ve found an Aberrant, you know where he is, but _not_ how to hurt him. Not how to get around the Sending.” Adler’s eyes flare with interest. “An Aberrant. Here. In London. Rarity is such a _sexy_ thing.”

Jim stares her down, widening his eyes to devour every inch of light, trying to see through to her soul. Stupid, predictable, _foolish_ little girl. She quivers under his stare, but doesn’t flinch.

“Yes,” he says finally, “I found one.” She opens her mouth to speak. “But you’re still being _rude._ If you want to keep your head on, Alder, here’s some friendly advice. Don’t _pry.”_

There’s a short silence.

“…Didn’t _Mycroft Holmes_ have you? And _just_ before you disappeared, too…”

Jim, without looking, snatches a knife from the desk drawer. Before he knows it, he’s on his feet, and there’s two inches of steel protruding from Adler’s shoulder. She cries out, grabbing it; red seeping between her fingers as she grasps at the blade.

“I said,” Jim tells her calmly, “ _Enough._ ”

She opens her mouth, shuts it again, and tries to pull the blade out. There’s a sucking noise as it pulls at the flesh inside her shoulder.

“ _Leave_ it where it _is_ ,” Jim sings, “And _maybe_ I won’t be cross with you.” Adler sags back against the chair, biting her lip. Her chest heaves. A thin film of sweat beads across her brow. Jim looks back down at the papers on his desk, picks the next one up. He sits down, wiggling in his chair to make himself comfortable.

Adler’s soft whimpers make an excellent soundtrack for reading to.

\---

An hour later, Jim casts the last of the papers onto his desk and sits back with a huff. “There’s _nothing_ here.”

“You’re certain?” Adler asks, in a voice made reedy by pain.

“Much as I admire your ability to collect the _inane,_ none of it the _slightest_ bit helpful.” Jim rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck. “There’s _nothing._ ”

Adler’s efforts to keep her voice level obviously cost her. She presses her graceful fingertips just above the injury in her shoulder. It leaks, slow but steady, staining a wet red line down her dress. “I brought you everything I found.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t. I’m sure you know what the consequences for holding back would be. But I need… more.” Jim sighs, and rubs his temples with the pads of his fingers.

“More.”

Jim’s hands drop to his lap. “I need the Iceman,” he tells the ceiling, knowing it’s half impossible even for him. Mycroft Holmes may be more protected than the tower of London and the New York stock exchange put together. Grabbing him…. well, it’s suicide, and not the attractive kind.

_Sebastian could do it._

_No, not that, not now, it’s not helpful._

“Who doesn’t? …You’re serious. I don’t believe it. I can’t work _miracles_.” Adler sounds irritable. “This is Mycroft Holmes. The man is practically a fortress.”

_Nothing I don’t already know, sweet girl._

But there’s nothing like being told he can’t do something to get Jim thinking. A dangerous pass-time, for his enemies.

Sudden and startling like a summer storm, Jim grins, feeling the _click_ of an idea snapping into place. “Give me forty-eight hours,” he says decisively as he stands. “And get that knife out of your shoulder. I need you on your _best_ behavior.”

He doesn’t stay to hear her scream as she pulls it out.

\---

Mycroft’s aide, Anthea, is a sweet little chit of a thing seemingly carved from the same ice that makes up Mycroft’s heart. Jim’s always liked her a little. He’s been saving a scheme to corrupt her for a rainy day, mulling it over in the back of his mind whenever he has a few spare minutes.

She takes Mycroft’s car out to London. He trusts her to do that on her own, silly boy. Jim watches behind a security monitor - a ghost in the CCTV feed - tracing her as she heads towards the houses of parliament.

“Irene,” he says quietly, into the microphone, “Take her now.”

It’s mostly because he appreciates the drama of it; not like he needs Alder to set things in motion. A homeless man stumbles in front of Anthea’s car, and the driver jerks the wheel hard to the left. Two wheels come off the pavement. There’s the screeching sound of rubber burning off against concrete, light sliding off black paint and shining chrome in the security feed as the driver skids onto the sidewalk. The car slams back down to all four wheels two feet from a drycleaner’s glowing open sign.

Jim’s drycleaners, of course. Men hustle out from inside – dark Indian faces in clean polo uniforms, the kind of man nobody looks at twice. They rush over to the car. Jim watches their mouths move on polite offers of help, the driver shaking his head. _I don’t need help, we’re fine, get back from the car –_

Jim feels a smile creep over his face, reading the drivers lips. He leans back and reaches out for a glass of scotch sitting on the corner of his desk.

The drycleaners pull the driver out from behind the wheel, ignoring his increasingly insistent protestations. Jim watches him begin to struggle. In the silent, grainy feed from the cameras, the driver thrashes and punches at Jim’s pen. One of them raises a pipe. It cracks down on his head, and the driver is still – limp as they drag him towards the back of the store. No one else is around; the streets are clear for blocks on the camera feed. Jim put the word out an hour ago:

_Stay home and I’ll send an ice-cream truck around later. Interfere and you’ll be frozen in the back of it._

It’s good to be in London.

Anthea’s door opens. She makes a valiant leap for the pavement. Her feet are bare, heels kicked off in the car so she can run faster. Her phone – Mycroft’s life-line – is clutched tight in her fist. Jim doesn’t doubt she’s already called for help, poor thing.

The bullet that takes her through the calf sends up a plume of blood that’s nearly black on the low-resolution feed. She tumbles forward, hair clouding over her face in silky-smooth strands, reflecting the light of the _open_ sign.

Men in polo shirts drag her away, leaving a smear of blood over the concrete away from the car. Jim reaches forward, hits a button on his laptop. The open sign flicks off.

He could just _call_ Mycroft, of course, but this is so much more fun.

\---

“Moriarty,” Mycroft says when Jim picks up, with an air of polite disgust.

Jim swivels in his chair, drumming his heels against the wheels. “Hello, handsome,” he chirps. “Couldn’t wait three days after our date?” Mycroft sniffs. Jim sighs. Just _once_ he’d like the Holmes boys to admit they’re not as clever as he is. “You were so _cold_ last time I saw you,” he hums. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“I really find it difficult to believe you’re being this foolish, James,” Mycroft tells him, unperturbed, “We both know you can’t hold on to Anthea. Dear lord, I hope you’re not stupid enough to think I’ll come after her.”

Jim pouts. “Aw. Don’t you want to see me?”

“This routine may work well for my brother, but I assure you, I find it extremely tedious. What do you want, James? We have – “ a pause, as Mycroft checks his watch – “Approximately an hour before my men recover Anthea. You have my attention until then, since you wanted it so dearly.”

“True love,” Jim says.

There’s a staticy silence. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, sure,” Jim grins at the ceiling and takes a sip of his drink, “It’s just another romantic story, isn’t it? Like something out of a fairy tale. Aberrants formed by true love…”

“I do believe the stress of your insanity is getting to you.”

“Well, yeah.” Jim giggles. “But _other_ than that, darling, it gets me _thinking._ _Love_ is a hormone release. Now, if Aberrancy is a recessive gene, activated in certain subjects by the pressure of hormonal change…”

“As much as I enjoy when you kidnap my secretary in order to debate pseudo-science, perhaps you’d care to stop wasting my time and publish your findings instead. May I suggest _The Sun?_ ”

“ _Mycroft Holmes Secretary Love Scandal_ does have a ring to it. It’s a shame nobody knows who you are.”

Mycroft snorts. Somehow, he even manages to make _that_ sound like a dignified noise. Jim wonders how many umbrellas he had to stick up his ass to get so posh. He immediately winces. The image of Mycroft Holmes, naked, with raingear shoved where the sun doesn’t shine is one of the few things that makes Jim wish he had a _less_ vivid imagination.

“In love with my secretary? Odd, how you’ll stretch when you’re desperate.”

“It’s someone,” Jim says, feeling a sudden calm settle over him: the surety of knowing he’s won. “I always thought you were untouchable, dear, but I’m afraid I found the truth. There is someone you love, more even than you love dear Sherly. Somewhere. Anthea’s kidnapping isn’t the point, _Ice_ man, it’s a warning. Take her back, please. But if you don’t come personally, I’ll start killing my way down the list of people you know. If it isn’t her – and I’m _good_ with hunches, so I think I’ll start there – it’s someone. And it’s only a matter of time before I find them.” He pauses for effect. “And then you find them. With every drop of blood in their body drained onto the floor.”

Silence. Static. A soft wet sound as Mycroft licks his lips.

“Don’t worry, _Myc_. I don’t intend to kill you. Not yet. Not if you’re a good boy.”

Mycroft takes a breath with a very soft hitch in it, and it’s so perfect Jim almost forgets to _gloat._ Iceman with a heart. What’s next? The Virgin screwing his Doctor?

_A heart in **my** chest?_

“Very well,” Mycroft agrees finally, “You may keep Anthea while I sort out my affairs. Shall we say tomorrow at five? The usual warehouse, I assume.”

“You know just how to make me giddy.”

Jim presses the hang up button, and tosses his phone on the desk. He leans back in his chair with his drink, letting the wet burn of alcohol linger on his lips. He’s thinking of Sebastian again, with a dull ache somewhere beneath his lungs. Jim presses a hand to his chest, and hums.

_A heart. Is it?_

_Well, stranger things have happened…_

\---

Jim doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but in the end, he does. Not that he’s aware that it’s happening until it already has. One moment, he’s at his desk – feet kicked up on top of his laptop, _Mock the Week_ playing at an appalling volume on the TV – and the next, he’s in a garden.

A rose garden. There’s a narrow patch of grass, startlingly bright against the deeper green of the rose-bushes all around him. A willow tree at the other end sways gently in the breeze, long branches brushing down against the flower-beds. There’s a branch of the tree that’s grown crooked, right down to the ground and horizontal like it was made to be sat on. The stone walls that surround him on all four sides are covered in grey vines like strands of raw wool on a loom. Amongst them, the red blooms of roses are blood spatters. A robin trills, flitting over the top of the wall, followed by his mate.

Jim turns a slow circle and inhales the scent of growing things and fresh-turned earth.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow…” he sings to himself under his breath. “…With silver bells, and cockle shells…”

“Jim.”

Sebastian is there, under the willow tree, on the seat that killed Lady Craven.

“Does this make you Dickon, then?” Jim asks, “Or Collin?”

“What?”

“You never read _The Secret Garden?”_ Jim immediately shakes his head. “After you were Sent, of course… Funny, you don’t even know about _Hitler_. It’s going to be hard for you, coming to my world. Just wait ‘til I get to watch you struggle with an iPhone…”

“I’m not coming to your world, Jim.”

Jim sighs. “Don’t be _stubborn,_ Sebastian. I can’t stand stubbornness.”

“I Sent you home for a reason. You belonged there.” Sebastian pats the seat beside him. “Come sit.”

“I’m dreaming,” Jim pouts. “Can’t you even do what I want in my own brain?”

Sebastian tilts his head. “When have you _ever_ controlled your brain?”

Jim giggles. “Point,” he concedes, and pads over to sit beside Seb on the willow-branch seat. The wood is cool and smooth beneath him. Sebastian’s wearing fatigues that Jim remembers seeing on the ex-KGB soldiers he hired in Serbia. Jim’s subconscious must find that appropriate. It looks good on Seb, anyways – rough dark cotton clinging to his massive frame. His scars are white, healed, sunken back into his face like his skin’s been melted into wax.

“You should have come with me,” Jim says, because it’s true. And because he’s dreaming. _This_ Sebastian can’t take advantage of his weaknesses. This Sebastian can’t even speak without Jim’s sleeping mind putting the words in his mouth.

Sebastian wraps an arm around Jim’s waist and pulls him closer. “Can’t Send myself,” he replies, calmly logical.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

Jim scowls at him. “For the last time, dear, I’m _dreaming_. Be a bit more agreeable a hallucination, would you?”

“What do you want me to say? _Break the laws of nature for you, Jim?_ ”

“It’s a start.” Jim tilts his head up as Sebastian’s fingers brush along his jaw. Sebastian’s mouth descends towards his, hot breath playing over Jim’s lips. “You could say, _do anything for you, Jim… I’ll always find you, Jim…_ ”

“I will,” Sebastian breathes, barely audible, his hand cupping Jim’s cheek.

Jim shuts his eyes. “I know,” he whispers.

Sebastian’s mouth seals over Jim’s. The kiss is searing, Sebastian pressing so hard into it that Jim has to push back just to stay upright. Sebastian’s fingers dig into Jim’s hipbone. His mouth is just slightly open, his breath heavy and humid against Jim’s lips. All at once the dream seems to have more texture than before. The cool shadows from the walls, the secret caress of a breeze on Jim’s skin – he feels it all around him like Sebastian’s kiss is a drug that makes his senses expand.

Jim’s going to have bruises from the grip Sebastian has on him.

Sebastian’s arm crushes Jim into him, like if he doesn’t Jim will float away on the breeze. Jim turns into Sebastian, fitting them closer together, clutching at the front of his shirt. Sebastian’s mouth opens for him, and Jim kisses him deeper; the tip of his tongue flicking against the tip of Sebastian’s. The taste of him is like a scent Jim half recognizes; a memory he can’t quite seem to grasp. He wraps his fists tighter in the rough fabric of Sebastian’s shirt, his frustrated snarl lost in the crush between them.

He can’t quite remember what it feels like to have Sebastian. To touch him. To kiss him, to have him _really_ here, instead of a dream…

Sebastian nips at his bottom lip, pulls it out, so Jim can feel his flesh go taut under Sebastian’s teeth. Sebastian’s thumb strokes over his cheek, leaving Jim’s skin flushed and heated behind it. Someone makes a helpless, yielding sound – it might be Jim, it might be Sebastian, it might be both of them.

Suddenly even the tight crush of their bodies isn’t close enough. Jim tears himself free and clambers into Sebastian’s lap. Sebastian hisses. His breath sucks in sharply over his teeth. Jim grins at him, twining his arms around Sebastian’s neck.

“Jim – “ Sebastian starts, but whatever he’s going to say, Jim’s heard it before.

Jim’s making this all up, after all.

“Shut up,” he says, soft and gentle, and leans down to kiss Sebastian again.

\---

Jim wakes up covered in sweat and other, less sanitary fluids. His breath is ragged in his throat. The fading glow of orgasm seeps slowly from his limbs, leaving him cold. With his flat perpetually empty, he can’t tell if it was the climax that woke him, or his own cries. Not like anyone else would have heard, even if he’d screamed.

The damp sheets twined around his ankles feel like restraints. Jim kicks them off and stares at the blank ceiling, taking a breath, and holding it for a count of three before he lets it go. The only sound is the pounding of his heart in his ears.

According to the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock, it’s three in the morning. The dream is already fading from his mind and his skin. No bruises left, this time. No teeth marks.

 _I’ll find you,_ Jim promises, to the lonely black. He half imagines he can see Sebastian, head resting on one hand, smiling down at him. _You belong to me, and I’ll find you._

_I have to._

There’s no one there to tell him it’s impossible. No one there to tell him Sebastian is gone for good.

Jim shuts his eyes and lies still, knowing he won’t get back to sleep.

\---

Mycroft walks across the warehouse floor, umbrella tucked under his arm, his chin held high. Jim waits at the far end with his arms crossed on his chest, Irene settled neatly into a chair at his side. All theatrics, of course. But that suits the three of them. Mycroft’s footsteps echo off the high concrete walls, sounds chasing each other through a warren of rusted out machinery.

Mycroft leans on his umbrella in front of Jim, hair neat, eyes scared.

“Well,” Jim says, “Shall we begin?”

 


	11. Irene in Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions and strong implication of rape/noncon. Without spoilers, what happens is more of the _fairy-tale following-the-script-so-they-have-to-have-sex_ thing, but unlike the rest of the story this _is_ implied to be rape. I am happy to supply a version of the chapter with this removed for those who avoid rape triggers.

Mycroft’s head sags towards the warehouse floor. His usually tidy hair is plastered in stringy lines over his brow. There’s a bead of sweat tracing the contours of his temple, salt water diluting the blood on his face. His slumped-forward shoulders are shaking.

Jim makes a face at the dark sweat stains on Mycroft’s deep navy suit. Torture is one thing, but ruining a suit like _that_ … Jim sighs and shakes his head. Well, it _is_ half his fault. _Mycroft_ might be the one that’s sweating but _Jim_ put the oily impact marks over his ribs and forearms.

Tire irons will do that to a suit.

“If it bothers you so much you might _stop,_ ” Adler says, leaning against the warehouse wall at what she assumes is a safe distance. She’s got an expression on her face like she’s watching someone kick a puppy she doesn’t particularly like: faintly disgusted, but interested all the same. Jim tries not to be amused by the stiff way she’s holding herself, protective of her wounds, but he fails miserably.

Serve her right for forgetting how to talk to him.

Jim straightens and pushes his hair back into place. “Darling,” he tosses over his shoulder, drumming his fingers against the tire iron’s grip, “We don’t argue in front of the _children,_ remember?”

Adler sniffs and turns her profile coldly. The effect of the tendons running along her bare neck to shoulder is somewhat ruined by thick bandages. Jim giggles softly to himself, tapping the tire iron idly against his thigh.

“Don’t be a sissy, Adler. _Mycroft_ wants to keep going – don’t you, Myc?”

Jim uses the tip of the tire iron to tilt Mycroft’s chin up to him. Mycroft’s fine-featured, pallid face is marred by black bruises. His eye is swelling viciously shut; the entire right side of his face a tumoured mass of contusions. There’s a frothy ribbon of bright blood on his lips – Jim supposes one of Mycroft’s ribs may have gone a bit too far _inwards_ at some point.

“By all means,” Mycroft forces out between what’s left of his teeth. To his credit, the words are completely decipherable consider the mess Jim’s making of him. Gold star for Mycroft. “Please continue.”

Jim beams at him fondly. “So _obliging,_ ” he says approvingly. “Are you taking notes, darling?” He twists to look over his shoulder at Adler. “You might have fewer _holes_ in you if you acted more like dear Mikey here.”

“I’ll put it in my agenda.” Adler rolls her eyes, thick lashes flicking against her brow line.

Jim sticks out his tongue at her, in too good of a mood to be put off by insolence. “You’d _better._ ”

Adler settles her arms over her chest, arching her brows in quiet disapproval. Jim scowls, and prods Mycroft in the throat with the tire iron to make himself feel better. Mycroft jerks against the cuffs holding him to the chair; his fingers glow uselessly within the oversize, knobby mittens Jim’d shoved him into. A flick of irritation sparks up Jim’s spine. _Getting angry, Ice Man?_ He prods Mycroft again, in the swollen eye this time, watching with fascination as his abused flesh dents like overripe fruit. Mycroft moans, shallow and ragged, and the light in his fingertips gutters and goes out.

Adler’s foot taps impatiently against the concrete. Some people just don’t know how to have fun…

“How long exactly are you planning on doing this for?” Adler asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. Be a dear and pass me something sharp and nasty, would you?” He sticks out a hand in her direction and wiggles his fingers, trusting that she’s not stupid enough to disobey him. Adler sniffs; then her heels click over the warehouse floor. A cold metal weight slaps against his palm. Jim curls his fingers around it, and feels the bright bite of a razor blade digging into his hand.

“I do admire your taste,” he tells Adler, “Even though you’re a _sissy_.”

Jim rasps the flat edge of the razor over Mycroft’s uninjured cheek, down to his jaw. It catches on stubble, jerking forward, and cuts shallowly into his skin. Mycroft inhales – almost a hiss, but he catches it in time; dragging the sound out slow and regular. Jim approves.

“I’m so glad you weren’t Culled,” he tells Mycroft softly, “Life would have been boring.” _Life would have not had Sebastian, but we just won’t say that._

“Happy to… oblige.”

The razor slices through the fine cotton of Mycroft’s shirt with barely a whisper, so sharp the fabric parts without resistance. Jim licks his lips and closes his eyes; feeling the drag as the razor’s point digs in to Mycroft’s skin. The shallow cut starts over his jugular and ends at his tie; ruining the shirt is one thing, but that burgundy silk – Jim would _never._ How gauche.

The tie’d be a lovely colour on Sebastian, with that white-blonde hair. Mycroft doesn’t do it justice. Jim tucks the razor behind his ear and loosens the tie neatly, drawing it off and setting it aside for later. As the heavy, expensive fabric drags over Mycroft’s throat, he coughs. Jim clicks his tongue in distaste, and draws the razor out from behind his ear. He can feel it cut in, nicking him at the top of his cartilage shell and leaving a single drop of blood to trace down to his eardrum. Clumsy, today.

Jim’s razor wiggles in under Mycroft’s waistcoat buttons. As he cuts the fragile threads, buttons pop and go bouncing off over the floor like shooting stars.

“You do realize you have to ask questions when you torture people,” Adler contributes impatiently.

Jim glances up to meet Mycroft’s eyes, making a face; as if to say, _can you believe some people?_ Mycroft gives a valiant attempt to raising his eyebrows. Jim pats him on the mitten for trying: A for effort, F for execution.

“He knows what I’m waiting to hear,” Jim says calmly. “Come along, Ice Man. Tell the nice lady what I want.”

“I assume…” Mycroft manages, “This is about my brother…”

Jim frowns. _Huh._ “Mmm…no-o….” he says slowly, “Don’t be _obvious,_ Mycroft, I don’t care about Sherly anymore.” Maybe Adler was right for once. Gold star for _her,_ ten points from Holmes. “I found something in your fairy-tale world I _want,_ Mycroft dear. And you’re going to help me get it _back._ ”

There’s a short silence.

“You expected him to guess that,” Adler says finally, disbelieving.

“Irene?”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Be quiet.”

He can hear the smirk in her voice. “Yes, Jim.”

Jim fumes. So maybe he’d been _hasty_ with the tire iron. In his defense, usually the Holmes brothers can be trusted to _get_ things, without Jim having to explain himself a hundred times. One of the few reasons he _liked_ them. Can’t trust anyone these days….

Jim sighs, swinging the tire iron against his leg as he thinks. The grip is oily underneath his palm, smeared with engine grease and blood. Jim wonders if Sebastian will like engines. If he’ll take to motorcycles the way he took to tigers and Moriarty… Chasing the danger…

Sebastian’s grin swims in Jim’s mind, bright and flashing. The space between his lips and his hair is a total blank. Jim can no longer remember precisely what Sebastian’s eyes look like. _You’re losing it,_ Jim thinks, before snapping himself back. He has to shake his head hard to get the cobwebs out of his thoughts. His leg is sore. He’s been hitting himself with the tire iron a bit harder than he’d thought; there might be bruises.

“If you’d like a break,” Mycroft says, into what must have been a long silence, “I’m happy to oblige you in that as well.” His tone manages to be dry even through the pain, and Jim scrubs both hands over his face just to keep calm. Mycroft’s dismissive sarcasm brushes down his hackles in all the wrong ways.

Jim’s dirty hands leave a smear of oil over his nose. Irene sniffs, and Jim has to roll his shoulders to stop himself from _stabbing_ her again.

_If only Sebastian and that **bitch** could trade –_

“Bring me a smoke,” he snaps at Irene. “We’re just getting started.”

\---

Jim tucks the cigarette between his lips, cups his hands around the end, and lights it. He takes a long, slow drag before he speaks, holding the smoke down into his lungs until the pressure of not breathing gets unbearable.

Smoke streams through the air from Jim’s lips to Mycroft’s wounds. It must sting in the spots that haven’t scabbed yet. “You’re going to do me a favour, darling,” Jim says easily, “You’re going to Send _her_ back _for_ me.”

Mycroft lifts his head enough to show Jim he’s raising an eyebrow skeptically. “Back?”

“Don’t you remember where you put me the last time?”

“Jim – “ Adler interrupts.

Jim cuts her off. “If you like your tongue where it is, Adler, I’d keep it _still._ ”

She manages to be silent for approximately six milliseconds. “Jim,” she starts again, only quieter, which Jim supposes is intended to placate him.

“Be _QUIET!_ ” he whirls and bellows at her. A strand of hair comes loose and he has to slick it back over his head, taking several deep breaths for control before he can continue. “I need. Someone. To go in and fetch. What I want. And you were clever enough to volunteer, _weren’t you_.”

Irene is pale and there’s a dark spot over her dress where blood is soaking through her bandages.

“Why should I do what you want?” Mycroft asks behind Jim. Jim recognizes it for what it is; a diversion. Splitting his attention between Adler and Holmes. He can even see the little flick of Adler’s eyes as she glances over to gauge the situation; trying to put her finger on how much she can trust Mycroft Holmes.

Jim shrugs. He hopes she gets the right answer. _Not much, and certainly less than she should **fear** me._ He turns, slow and controlled, swinging all his weight around his heel gracefully to look at Mycroft. Mycroft glares back, his hands in the badly-knit mittens, his hair plastered to his damp and bloody forehead. Jim could almost like the look of him, like this. If only he wasn’t ugly as Satan making out with a cherub’s ass.

“Mm,” Jim taps a finger on his lips, pretending to consider it. “Maybe because you _want_ to, Ice Man. Why else?” He holds his hand out for Adler’s wrist without looking at her. There’s a slight hesitation before she obeys the silent command, and tension runs back and forth through the air between them like static electricity. Jim can feel it prick over his skin, in the breathless moment before her cold wrist settles into his palm.

She’s trembling. Poor dear.

Jim guides her hand down towards Mycroft. “Do you have to touch her head with your Lite-Brite fingers, or is your hand enough?” he asks brightly. “I don’t mind. I can get you free. It’s just, I don’t want to have to cut them _off_ if you try and Send me when we’re alone together…”

“You have,” Mycroft grits out through his teeth, “My word. As a gentleman.”

“Oh,” Jim replies, “Goody.” He reaches down and slips the knot on Mycroft’s mittens with his spare hand, pulling back before there’s any chance of contact. Next time, he’s got to get bad Christmas mittens. The whole _knitting_ and _murder_ thing is very 1792.

Mycroft’s fingers wiggle, and start to glow. Irene jerks in Jim’s grasp – a faint twitch, like her body is stuttering. She’s too smart to _really_ pull back, after all. Jim may have survived Sending, but _she_ definitely wouldn’t survive _Jim._ Her wrist jumps between Jim’s fingers, like bird wings beating against a cage, and then she’s still. Jim guides her hand down, until her fingers touch Mycroft’s.

Their eyes meet; Irene’s wide, dark, her lashes trembling at the same rate as her crimson lips. Mycroft’s expression is sad. His long, pale fingers curl around hers. Jim can see her skin go white under the pressure as he squeezes down. What a curious thing, human comfort. He’s tempted to go _awwwwww._ Or cut off Mycroft’s hand.

 _You know, the second idea, might have more than one practical purpose…_ Jim frowns. There’s a bright flash of light that wipes the idea from his brain. Then Adler is gone, and he’s standing alone in the room; planted solid on the basement floor, watching Mycroft.

Mycroft slumps in his chair like he’s been sucker-punched by a semi-truck. His breath is uneven, his chest swelling and falling as he struggles for control. To his credit, he does quite well. Jim could almost miss the weakness in Holmes; if he was blind. Or incredibly high.

Jim sighs in pleasure, snatches Mycroft’s mitten up from the floor, and hops over to the chair. He swings down to squat in front of Mycroft, careful of the distance between them.

“Oooh, what a _relief,_ ” Jim coos, pulling the mitten on Mycroft’s unresisting hand, “Can’t you just _feel_ the silence?” He finishes re-fastening Mycroft’s mitten and stretches, rolling himself up to his tip-toes and reaching for the sky.

“I would deeply love to know what it was, James,” Mycroft says, his head tucked so far into his chest that the words come out muffled.

Jim turns, dropping his hands to swing at his sides. “Hmm?”

“What you found that you’re so desperate to retrieve.” Mycroft looks upwards, finally, his eyes glinting and narrow. Jim cocks his head to the side, studying Mycroft’s expression. _Determined,_ almost. Oh, the poor thing. Trying to make Jim all figured out and _tamed…_ “And why, in the end, you came back at all. You were _so_ eager to go, after all. I expected you to rather enjoy your… adventure.”

Jim can’t help but smile. “Being Sent,” he says dreamily. “Everything I wanted and _nope_ , hated it.” Jim frowns at Mycroft. “You Sent me to a universe where I didn’t get to say what I wanted. Or make my own endings. It was very rude of you.”

Mycroft smiles back at him, breaking but still self-satisfied, his pearl-white teeth glinting against his thin pink lips. “Ah, yes. I had hoped it would teach you something.”

“You hoped I wouldn’t come back. Find a distraction, set up a white picket fence…” Jim tries not to imagine Sebastian tied to a white picket fence – sitting cross legged, with his arms spread and roped, on display, the stakes digging into his spine…

“There is the rather impressive fact that only three people have ever managed to return in recorded history.” Mycroft inclines his head, a motion he manages to make look surprisingly regal considering his situation. “I must admit to underestimating you, James.”

“I’d be flattered, only you don’t mean that.”

“No. I thought you’d choose to stay, to be honest. I doubt anyone is capable of forcing you into a course you don’t wish to pursue.” There’s a long moment of silence, then - as if reading Jim’s mind - Mycroft adds, “Don’t be insulting, James. I am perfectly aware you are avoiding the subject.”

“…Maybe I found a really shiny rock.”

“Or perhaps you found something important enough that simply revealing it would be a weakness. _And then_ you found a way to come back, truly remarkable… Two impossible deeds in one day, the mind boggles. Only Aberrants can Send between universes, after all, and I _did_ make sure to place you far from any realized Aberrant talents… Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying you ‘found some _thing’_ after all _._ Perhaps it was not two remarkable things, but one. In that case, when may we expect the happy announcement? I assume, considering your character, the intended is some form of poisonous rodent.”

Jim tries not to jerk backwards like Mycroft has slapped him, but he can’t resist standing.

“Aaaaand we’re done here.”

-++++++++-

When she wakes up under a peach tree in China, Irene takes a deep breath, and holds it for a count of three before she lets it go. Her lips stick together slightly as they part, and she fights the urge to lick them nervously. She schools her features into the polite mask of calm that so often provokes her clients; an aloof look, unaffected and untouchable. It does an excellent job of hiding her features. The man seated in front of her is dappled with shadow from the peach trees; there’s a still-healing scar that jags down his face through his lip like lightning. He doesn’t look like a kind man, or a safe one; Irene feels the threat of him instinctively, a prickle that drags over her spine. There’s a callous on his thumb, and more scars across the back of his hand that speak to sword fights or kitchen mishaps. Irene feels pretty good about guessing which.

The Lord of Wei has a presence like a coiled snake. The set of his mouth and the muscles of his neck say _killer_ even though his clothes say _fop._ Irene tries to push herself back, and frowns. She looks down at her knees. Her legs are folded underneath her gracefully, and it would be easy to draw her left foot forward, plant it, and stand… Irene visualizes the motion. She commits to it. She decides very firmly she is about to stand up.

Adrenaline floods Irene’s system, setting her heart pounding and her skin itching. A terrible chill works its way up the back of her neck over her skull. Still, she doesn’t move. Every nerve in her body screams warning, until Irene feels she should shake from the sheer desperate intensity of horror.

The Lord of Wei stares at her with a blank expression, a puppet instead of a man. His blue eyes are pale, and narrowed in concentration.

Irene’s hand raises mechanically to her mouth, without her consent. She smiles at the Lord of Wei. She takes a bite of the peach.

Inside, she is screaming.

++

The next time she wakes up, in a throne room, Irene fights; pushes against every word that grows in her throat, rattles her chains, tries to jerk herself upwards when they force her to kneel. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t move. Inside she roars and froths and rages, but outside she is perfect and silent. The man on the throne – the same blonde man, from Wei – discusses her _price_ , as if she’s not there. As if she’s chattel.

Irene can’t help but remember a night two years ago, when a Bulgarian Duchess had wanted to play at slavers. Irene had smiled. _I’d love to own you, my dear,_ she said, feeling invincible with her lips painted like blood. They’d discussed price like flirtation, Irene goading the Duchess on until her head had reeled with the sheer excess of it.

Now Irene thinks she might say _no_ to slavery,no matter how good the money is _._ Next time. If there is a next time.

When the King shuts the door of his chambers behind them, his eyes are furious and terrified. Irene tilts her chin back to look at him down her nose, taking comfort in the familiar trappings of dominance. No matter how shallow and petty they are. In the lamplight, the King of Persia’s tanned skin becomes golden. He looks like a wild thing in a trap, narrow and focused and entirely capable of violence. Irene might appreciate him, in another life. In another gender. _Oh, god._

She wishes she could run. She wishes she could scream. Irene shuts her eyes. She doesn’t hear him move closer, but she feels the touch of his hands. His room is cool, and when he strips her, her naked skin stands up in goose-bumps. She tries to fold her arms around her body, and cover herself, but she can’t. She stands naked and exposed in front of the scared stranger, the Prince of Persia, the Lord of Wei. Moriarty’s most treasured possession, she’s willing to bet.

_And a man, and a man about to touch me, and I can do **nothing –**_

When she feels the hot touch of his fingertips on her bare breasts, Irene shuts her eyes. She can’t bear to see.

-++++++++-

“Of course I _am_ sorry about your fairy princess,” Mycroft says finally, spitting a tooth to the side. Jim pauses, allowing Mycroft enough space to gain breath.

Then he asks tolerantly, “Are you? When she’ll be joining me so soon?”

“Will she?” Mycroft chuckles, the sound hitching and catching on his broken breathing. The latest blows have cracked something in his shoulder, and his body slumps unpleasantly to one side in the chair. “My dear James, how do you imagine that will happen? Aberrants can’t Send _ourselves_ …”

“ _Adler_ can give my _fairy princess_ directions for getting here,” Jim says firmly.

“And – excuse me – even if it _were_ possible for her to retrieve the mysterious Aberrant accomplice, how do you know I Sent Adler to the right place at all?”

Jim leans casually on the tire iron like a walking stick, and tilts his head. “You have to know, don’t you? What it is, that makes me _weak._ You’re _dying_ to find out.” He grins at Mycroft. On every breath Mycroft’s chest jumps, as a muscle spasms in protest. Jim wonders idly in the back of his mind if it’s possible to suffocate from pain-induced shock. “So of course you had to give her a fighting chance. Couldn’t help yourself. Maybe not make it _easy,_ oh no, that wouldn’t be _right –_ but you just couldn’t close off the possibility _entirely._ I mean – a weakness, a _flaw,_ in _me?_ You couldn’t throw that away, Myc, it’s too _tantalizing._ ”

“Perhaps I don’t have your… preoccupation with finding the answers,” Mycroft tries, in his halting broken voice.

Jim laughs. “Oh no. No. You and me and the Virgin, dear. We’re built from the same blocks. You can’t lie to me, can you, ‘cause I know what engine makes you go. Round and round and round on your little tracks…”

“It’s possible that I judged the risks of allowing Adler to give you what you want, and found them too threatening.”

Jim shakes his head, fighting another laugh. He rubs a hand over his lips, looking down. Oh, it’s just too good. “But you don’t think I’m good enough to threaten you. After all… an Aberrant… Running the British Government… What could touch you?”

Mycroft’s face goes cold underneath the distortions of bruises. “Certainly not a psychotic in love.”

Jim leans forward and pats Mycroft’s cheek, bored with the conversation. _Psychotic,_ god, the Holmes and their misdiagnoses. “We have so much in common,” he says fondly, playing stupid again. “Are you getting sleepy, too? Why don’t you try and be a good little torture victim, and I’ll give you a bit of a break. I may even pick up some _cake_ for you, while I go to grab smokes…”

“Oh, dear lord,” Mycroft moans, “Please, torture me all you like, but do not _force-feed_ me. We need not resort to such _crudity._ ”

“Monitoring the internet gives you such terrible ideas,” Jim grins. “Don’t wait up, dear. And do try to get rescued. I feel like we haven’t had a good enough bloodbath yet.” He gives Mycroft’s bruises another sharp pat, and straightens.

-++++++++-

Irene lies awake in Persia, in the circle of the King’s arms. Her skin is still sticky with sweat, and she can’t tell how much of it is her own. Each breath the King takes, slow and even, makes Irene’s hair move as if in a breeze. He breathes deep in his stomach like an athlete or performer, the rise and fall of his diaphragm just under Irene’s nose. Moonlight from the vast window drains his skin of its golden warmth, until he is carved of cold, dead marble.

In the darkness, it seems like the world has forgotten them; forgotten it’s iron grip over their actions enough that Irene manages to whisper, “I came for you.” The words burn her throat, like fire in her voice box. Acidic bile chases them up from her stomach, and Irene has to shut her mouth and swallow quickly, so she doesn’t cough out venom and smoke. Her eyes water. The muscles of her stomach clench. And still, she barely manages more than a whisper. Her voice is so quiet she thinks for a terrified second that he won’t hear, and the effort it took will be wasted.

But the broad, scarred chest underneath her rises and falls, and the King’s voice rasps, “How can you…”

“I’m… Irene,” her vision goes dark with the strain of it, but it’s important, and she has to, and she _must_ – “Was… Sent. He…” Anything more and Irene feels like her stomach will rip itself out in protest.

It’s something, at least. The King waits to be sure she won’t continue before he speaks. “Sebastian. And… me too. I was Sent.”

His voice is already stronger than hers.

++

“You have come too early,” the djinn says to Irene in Africa, with a voice like the smell of hot metal. Irene sits up in bed and opens her mouth, but can’t go far enough to speak. “The problem you’ve come to solve won’t exist until the Professor joins our time-line...” The djinn tilts its head to study her, and frowns. “I will not offer you help. I already have one broken promise from Professor Moriarty. I have no interest in collecting yours.”

Irene’s mouth works.

“You are not as strong as Moriarty, or as useful.” The djinn pauses to suck its lips over its teeth, black patterns twisting with a derisive sound. “You will be lost, here, sooner or later.” It shrugs its broad shoulders, steel-blue and black shadows playing on its face so the lines on its skin seem to writhe. “You may escape before you go mad, of course. The King of Shadows sent you, and where he is concerned, I do not prophecy.”

Irene manages, with a difficulty that shreds her throat, “Too… early?”

“Professor Moriarty has not yet met Colonel Moran.” The sun is rising fast, shadows collect and fade together over the djinn; leaving its eyes wells of blackness, its cheeks sunken, its mouth rimmed in threatening darkness. “You could not save him even if you had the power or the strength of mind. To you, luckless Irene, I can grant no favour.” The djinn extends a hand to her, palm up, showing the flawless links of its chains. “But, should you wish it, I can safeguard what you are from madness until you are saved.” It pauses. “I can grant you oblivion. You would not miss what you were. You would not hurt. If the Professor returns, you may yet be rescued.”

Irene shakes her head.

It lowers its hand. With something like disappointment, the djinn says, “Remember the offer, Madame.”

And she does. She remembers it dimly as a starving dog, until the wagon snaps her spine and all she knows is an overwhelming, horrifying pain. She remembers it in when the cycle begins again in China, when the Lord of Wei cuts off her foot and the pain sets her free long enough to scream.

The next time they end up in Persia, with Sebastian’s sweat drying on her skin, she manages, “ _Jim… Blackmailing…”_ and thinks _Mycroft,_ and thinks, _trying to save you, caring about you, coming for you –_ But none of it gets out.

Still; it’s enough to make her hope. She might get better. Might get stronger. So the next time when she sees the djinn and it says “I could still save you, Miss Adler,” she shakes her head. She’s Irene Adler, after all. _The_ Woman. She can do anything.

And the cycle begins again.

Irene knows dimly that she is still screaming, inside, and because she doesn’t have to draw breath the sound doesn’t ever have to end.

It’s not the pain that’s truly terrifying. It’s the anticipation. The moment when your skin prickles, tension stretched out until your mind is past any reasonable breaking point. In Italy, when she stands over the troll’s table with its corpse bleeding onto the floor beside her, Irene knows the loon and the Inuit girl are coming. It’s the _anticipation_ that drives her mad. Irene looks at the food on the troll’s table and her stomach rumbles in preparation for starving. She’s struck by a crazed desire to shove the entire feast in her mouth; the rotting meat, the magic mushrooms. Anything _,_ at least later she can remember being full. Being _warm._ The heat of the fire strokes her skin, and so soon she will be freezing.

The insidious voice of madness in her ear whispers, _cut the corpse open and climb inside where no one can find you, stay warm, stay here, anything **anything** but starving again – _

Even if she keeps saying no to the djinn, Irene is losing herself.

-++++++++-

A towering stack of mattresses.

“There’s a pea under there somewhere,” Jim says philosophically.

“Bit of a rubbish test of nobility, if you ask me,” Sebastian responds from the top. As he leans over, his blonde hair falls over his brow like hay in a breeze. He’s grinning. “They’d be better off asking _have you ever found yourself really wanting to fuck your cousin…_ ”

“You’re confusing rednecks and royalty again, dear.”

“Hey. It’s not _my_ subconscious.” Sebastian lolls off the edge of the mattresses, and reaches down for Jim. “Get up here.”

Jim takes his hand, lets himself be pulled to the top. It’s a feat of more than human strength, but then again – what are dreams good for?

“I _do_ wish you’d wait until I _choose_ to sleep in order to haunt my dreams,” Jim grumps at Sebastian, when they’re together on top of the pile of mattresses. “Where have I passed out now?”

“The apartment hall,” Sebastian responds easily, pulling Jim towards him. “Nearest shop to the warehouse didn’t carry matches, so you decided to come fetch a lighter.”

“Ah, yes,” Jim nods, allowing himself to be drawn in. Sebastian settles Jim over his chest, Jim’s head balanced on Sebastian’s shoulder. It’s disturbingly easy to get comfortable, like this. There’s a purr in Sebastian’s ribs when he breathes, like the thrumming of a great big cat. That’s probably from Jim thinking of drainpipes and tigers. He shuts his eyes, listening to the purr and Sebastian’s heartbeat. “I Sent Adler after you,” he says, “But I don’t really think she’s going to fetch you. I don’t think anyone can.”

“Shhh,” Sebastian says, “Shh.” His fingers stroke over Jim’s back. Under Sebastian’s touch Jim’s skin lights up, tingling and attentive. He wants Sebastian to touch him more. He wants…

“It’s hardly the time for a wet dream,” Jim protests. “And as much as I enjoy a good mindfuck, doing it to _myself_ seems like a _waste of ti –_ ”

“Stop,” Sebastian tells Jim, voice quiet but unyielding against his ear. Jim stops, much to his own surprise. “I could be real,” Sebastian continues, “For what dreams are worth. If you’d stop fighting so hard to hold onto the truth. If you stopped trying to _know_ I was fake, to _remind_ yourself – ”

Jim weighs it in his mind. The truth versus Sebastian. Reality versus skin on skin, the mindless _need_ of Sebastian’s mouth over his versus the humiliation of knowing he _let_ himself be deluded.

“I hope you know,” Jim murmurs, into Sebastian’s shoulder, “That I’m not usually this kind of girl.”

“Shut up,” Sebastian tells him. Jim can hear the smile in Sebastian’s voice, the faint note of gloating triumph. Quick as the pounce of a cat, Sebastian rolls them over so he can pin Jim into the mattress. The hot press of his mouth makes Jim gasp, his lips opening under Sebastian’s as his shoulders crush the crisp sheets underneath him. Sebastian’s tongue thrusts into Jim’s mouth, sharp and darting, then his teeth follow; sinking into Jim’s lip. Jim moans, hips jerking upwards, until his whole body is pressed in a hard line against the heat of Sebastian’s chest. One of Sebastian’s huge hands slides between Jim and the blankets, flat on the small of Jim’s back.

Jim’s body is a buzz of disparate sensations. Heat of Sebastian’s hand. Crisp coldness of the sheets. _Let it be real,_ he tells himself, _oh, let it be real – for just a moment –_

Sebastian’s mouth tastes of cigarettes and honey and ozone, and Jim feels light-headed. Like he can’t get enough air. The dream swells and rolls like an ecstasy high. Jim can feel Sebastian’s hand slip up his side, under his shirt, playing his rib-bones like xylophone keys. He moans. Over his shoulder-blade Sebastian’s nails dig in. The pain urges Jim up into the kiss and Sebastian presses him back down, rocking them together, his lips bruising and cruel. There’s a hollow ache under Jim’s skin. _More._ He grabs Sebastian’s hips and pulls them roughly downward. _More._

Through two layers of thin fabric Sebastian’s cock presses against Jim’s, hot and hard. The rub of it is two parts perfect to three parts _not fucking enough,_ and Jim moans into Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian laughs, breathless and challenging. He pulls backwards, hauling Jim up off the bed and into his lap with pure brute strength. They’re kneeling, then, and Jim clutches Sebastian’s jaw hard with two hands to kiss him violently. To rip him open. Jim’s fingers jam into the pressure points at the back of Sebastian’s jaw.

Jim means it to hurt, but if Sebastian cares about the pain he certainly doesn’t show it. He tears a breathless sound from Jim’s throat as he ruts upwards, his cocking pushing hard against the underside of Jim’s shaft. Jim can feel the tense and flex of hard muscle in Sebastian’s thighs, and _– let it be real –_ the rigid heat of Sebastian’s erection, stroking roughly over his sensitive skin. _Need_ slams into Jim like a bullet, leaving him breathless and curiously empty, as if he needs more just to feel whole again.

Jim lets his palms slide forwards enough to grab two fistfuls of Sebastian’s hair and wrench his head painfully backwards. Sebastian’s eyes are slitted, his cheeks flushed, his breath quick and uneven. He looks like an animal in a trap. There are dusky bruises forming under Jim’s fingers. Sebastian must be in pain, although, Jim’s not entirely sure that there’s even a _line_ left between pain and pleasure at this point.Sebastian’s fingers on his hipbones are razorblades, and the death grip Jim’s got on his hair can’t feel much better.

Or worse. _More_ is a refrain in Jim’s head and even if _more_ means broken bones and blood spatter, at least he won’t feel hollow. At least it will be Sebastian crashing over him, that desire so strong it might as well be destruction consuming them both –

Sebastian licks his lips, and Jim bends his head, chasing the pink tip of Sebastian’s tongue. He catches it in his teeth and bites down, until blood floods his mouth. Sebastian presses up into the kiss, the tendons in his neck standing out stark and starving. Jim bites him: over and over, cheek, lip, tongue, until Sebastian’s face is a wreck of blood and his kisses taste of salt. Of bitter tears. Sebastian’s cock rubs against Jim’s ass, and Jim can’t help but cry out. Sebastian rocks his hips upwards, catching Jim’s moans in that desperate, bloody kiss.

Everything is surreal and spinning, sensations coming and going in bright disjointed flashes. The handful of skin Sebastian grabs on his back. The tortured gasp forced from Sebastian’s lungs when Jim grinds down on him. Jim’s fingers tingling as he cuts off circulation, wrapping them in Sebastian’s hair.

“ _Sebastian,”_ Jim hisses, unable to get enough oxygen. He has to tear his mouth away to gulp down a frantic lungful of air. He buries his face in the safe place between Sebastian’s neck and shoulder, blood and sweat making their skin stick together. He wants release; any release – sex or violence – the need so insistent he can taste it on the back of his teeth. Each heaving breath Sebastian takes makes his shoulder shudder beneath Jim’s lips. The grind of his cock against Jim’s ass is making Jim’s thoughts go frantic and scattered.

_Now, now, **now –**_

Jim doesn’t usually thank god he’s dreaming. But when the fabric separating them simply disappears – and Sebastian’s cock slides across Jim’s already slick entrance – Jim has a whole lot of gratitude for higher powers. The drag of skin on skin rips moans from Jim’s throat, muffled into Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian is panting, breath loud and ragged, his chest heaving under Jim’s hands.

“Now, Sebastian, _now –_ “ Jim orders, and the muscles in Sebastian’s legs flex as he shifts position, and then –

And then –

The next thrust is angled so the wide head of Sebastian’s cock pushes into Jim’s entrance. Jim’s breath catches in his throat. Sebastian’s cock is hard, and hot, and _huge,_ and he’s not stopping. He slams himself upwards into Jim without pausing - unrelenting - driving himself so deep that Jim has to toss his head back and cry out, just to ride on the edge of the sensation. He feels stretched, impaled, the _fullness_ of Sebastian’s cock in him so pure and impossibly intense that it might as well be pain. The tip of his cock brushes over Jim’s prostate. What follows isn’t sparks. It isn’t fireworks. It’s gunpowder, it’s _explosions_ under Jim’s skin, it’s –

It’s waking him up.

_No. No. No, not while I’m – no, god, I need – I’m so close –_

But it’s inexorable. On the hazy borders of Jim’s perception, he can feel the pleasure of orgasm pushing against his brain, calling him back to the world. In the dream Sebastian’s teeth sink into Jim’s shoulder, his cock pounds into Jim’s prostate. Jim hangs between the real world and the dream, clinging with his fingernails to the damp skin of Sebastian’s back. He can still hear Sebastian’s breath in his ear when he loses his grip. Orgasm rips him back into reality; he hears himself cry out into the empty hallway of Conduit Street, his own body supplying the release that Sebastian can’t. The pleasure Sebastian can never give Jim, ever again.

Jim digs his fingernails into his palms while his body shakes in the aftershock, four perfect crescent moons of pain. They aren’t enough. Jim grinds his teeth into the side of his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, and lets his body tremble and fail in the wake of physiological response. Self-loathing settles like a shroud over his thoughts, at the loss of self-control, at the _humiliation_ of it all.

Jim Moriarty doesn’t _pine._ Jim Moriarty doesn’t _fail,_ when he wants something.

_Oh, Sebastian._

_You’re a terrible influence._

-+++++++++++-

“I can’t,” Irene whispers, into the hot dark of the African night. She doesn’t open her eyes to see if the djinn is there; it is. It always is. “I can’t. _Please._ Take it away…”

“Peace, unlucky Irene.” the djinn says gently, in its hot metal voice. “He will wake you. When the time comes.”

She looks up at it. Its expression is too inhuman to be pity, but Irene feels comforted by it anyways.

“But until the King of Shadows returns, you will fade, and you will become nothing. Take forgetfulness, Adler. It is the only way you may endure.” Sparks begin to show on its skin, pin-pricks of light writhing down the black lines in its flesh like a flashlight through a moth-holed curtain. They bead, running down its face and neck and chest, merging together from tiny points into streams. The djinn raises its hand again, lined in shining light like it’s swallowed a small sun. Over its wrists, where the chains bind it, its skin remains dull and black. Irene watches the tips of its fingers start to glow, then a thin arc of light jumps from the djinn to her forehead like static electricity, and then –

There is nothing.

Blissful, ignorant, unending, _nothing._

-+++++++++++-

Jim comes back into the warehouse dragging a stool. He sits down across from Mycroft and digs cigarettes out of his pocket. His hands are steady. He draws one out, lights up, and meets Mycroft’s eye.

_Look Mom, no nerves._

“I want you to Send me back,” Jim says, in a calm and easy tone that costs him far more than it should.

“What?” Mycroft raises his eyebrows in surprise. Jim can’t blame him.

“We both know Adler isn’t going to make it,” Jim says, taking a drag. He blows the smoke at Mycroft’s face, just to be nice. Give the poor man some second-hand nicotine. Myc just _loves_ second-hand pleasures, after all. “I’ve decided you can _have_ this world, dear. I want my special little something, and I don’t care exactly _where_ I get it, in the end. So why don’t you just Send me where back I was, and I’ll even promise not to come _bother_ you again. Won’t that be nice?” Jim tries to look like it’s all a bit of a joke. He even does the playing-with-you voice; sings his words, growls, plays the odd syllable around in his mouth like a caramel candy. Mimicking his normal tone.

Mycroft, of course, knows the truth; he stares at Jim, disbelieving. Under normal circumstances, Jim would actually _pay_ to see that stunned expression on the Ice Man. But as it is Jim doesn’t blame Myc; not exactly. Hard to see this one coming, after all. Yesterday, Jim’d been so sure he could win. And he _could_ break Mycroft, eventually, they both know that. Anything will break if you hit it often enough with enough force. Not to mention that Irene might even succeed (despite all expectations) in bringing something back: after all, miracles and _insanely_ improbable coincidences are the sort of thing that Jim _does_.

It lies in the eye-contact between them; all those years of cat-and-mouse, all those times Jim got the better of the British Government and waltzed away without a hair out of place.

Jim wouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t. But… when he’s awake, Jim’s starting to forget the shape of Sebastian’s scars. He doesn’t really remember the taste of Sebastian’s skin. Sebastian is draining from Jim, like his memory has a leak or a hole at the bottom. Sebastian is slowly slipping away, piece by piece, the smell of his sweat and the colour of woad on his skin; maybe one day there won’t be anything left in Jim’s head that tastes of him at all.

_Changeable me._

_I don’t have enough time or enough force to keep hitting you until you break, Mikey dear. Sorry._

Jim leans forward and tugs one of Mycroft’s gloves free, guiding it up until he can press it against his cheek. Mycroft’s hands are cold, and far softer than a man’s hands have any right to be. Jim shuts his eyes. He can feel a tremor in Mycroft’s fingertips, the start of electric heat.

Mycroft might not even Send Jim to the right place. Mycroft might Send him to an active volcano. Mycroft might do a hundred things, all of which would place Sebastian out of reach forever.

_But I can’t live **here** with you living **there.** You’d appreciate the gesture, darling, I get the feeling self-destruction is your **thing –**_

_Sorry, but I can’t live – I can’t live without –_

Electric light sparks in Jim’s forehead. Mycroft frowns, concentrating. He shuts his eyes, focusing on the Sending.

And because neither one of them has their eyes open, neither sees Jim’s hands start to glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever! I feel like _Good Old Fashioned_ has been a bit of a failed experiment, and I've not really had the motivation to finish it. But here it is! Last chapter posts as soon as I can bring myself to do it.  <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to dear Miescha, who edited this beast of a chapter.
> 
> And for those who are interested, every single one of the fairy-tale worlds was based on a specific time and place in history, and if you can figure them out, I will give you a cookie and a pat on the head and maybe some fanart.
> 
> This fic has been a holy terror for me and I'm glad to have finished it at last. I hope the ending is everything you want!

The Sending isn’t the same, this time. Jim doesn’t get anything as kind as unconsciousness. He sees the world stretch in a direction that previously hadn’t existed, twisting into thick goopy tendrils that surge through a void of unimaginable size. And Jim’s body twists with them. His brain grinds through some sort of cosmic cheese-grater, stretched and molded and formed into gauze soaring over a vast darkness. It hurts; a pain so unbelievably fierce Jim’s not sure if it goes away or if his nerves just give up and overload. There’s a sensation on Jim’s skin he doesn’t have words for; a taste in his mouth that’s coloured pink. His senses blur together, and he can feel the synapses in his brain snap and reconnect.

It should be frightening. The pain, especially. But it’s _not._ There’s a buzzing calm in Jim’s mind, and a clear certainty, as if some new lobe of his brain is waking up and saying, _ah, yes. This is the way it is. This is how it works._

Singing light swirls above the void around him, ghostly tendrils leaking from the edge of the world. Jim wants to run his fingers through them, feel the electricity crackling between them brush his skin like strands of hair. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the void between universes, every atom in his skin changing vibration at once.

Ahead of him the strands of his universe make contact with the fairy-tale world and a bridge is created.

The two universes drift so close the edges of them brush and tangle and blur into the same place viewed from different angles. It’s the easiest thing imaginable for Jim to find a crossing, reach out, and pull himself over.

\-------------

The hooves of Sebastian’s black charger echo over the seamless white marble of the throne room floor. Around him, the courtiers are silent in shock. They are, to a man, on their feet – a thick crowd of nobles in turbans and robes. The soft rush of a fountain and the thud of horse-hooves on priceless carpet are lost in the rustle of their whispers.

Jim lands lightly on his feet to the right of the dais, in a secretive, dark enclave. He’s out of sight of Sebastian and the court, although he can still faintly hear them. The enclave is cool, flawlessly private, even the murmurs and astonishment of the courtiers muffled into obscurity. When Jim moves, golden dust stirs up into the shadows, crossing the bar of light that falls from a slightly open curtain to Jim’s feet. Through the gap, Jim can peek into the brightly lit throne room and watch Sebastian approach the dais. The curtain is made of heavy fabric, considering the heat, and woven in intricate patterns that divide and intersect with mathematical precision. Jim recognizes it instantly. He’s hid behind it before, actually. Only it had been open, and – _Ah._ Jim cranes his neck. To the _left_ of the throne, a woman crouches behind the curtains. Hidden just out of sight of the court. She’s got a crown nestled in to her rich black curls, and looks breathless in anticipation.

Sebastian is here to demand her as his wife, after all. Playing at being Ala ad-Din.

Jim snorts and turns his attention back to Sebastian.

There’s no script to pull at Jim, no lines he has to say, no expected position. It’s maybe the first chance he’s had to study Sebastian in earnest. Sebastian’s blonde hair sways as he urges his horse up the dias, brushing soft as silk over his brow. The muscles in his thighs are rock hard; starkly defined as he lifts up on his heels, riding high in the saddle. His eyes are cold and dead, and his mouth is thinned into an unforgiving slash. The scar on his face suits him, today.

Sebastian reins in before the throne like it’s the gallows and the sultan is the executioner.

“I’ve come for what you promised me,” he says, and his voice is bare, and expressionless, and thick with despair. His blue eyes are clouded. Sebastian’s not even looking at the Sultan; his stare is fixated on an empty point somewhere in the middle distance. Like he’s not really looking at anything. Like he’s trying to let go of reality. Poor thing.

On the other side of the throne, the princess begins to shift. Sebastian’s eyes slide to the curtain, expecting her appearance. He blinks, and holds it just a little too long, like he wishes he could keep his eyes shut.

 _Poor, poor soldier boy,_ Jim thinks. _You really **martyred** yourself for me, didn’t you?_

Loyalty like that has to be rewarded, Jim decides. Or maybe it’s just that the mopey look on Sebastian’s face is getting old. On the other side of the throne, the Princess is reaching forward for the curtain.

The Sultan’s mouth opens and shuts in outrage, his face the same shade of red as the hats of his guards.

The dust stirs under Jim’s feet as he steps forward, into the light of the court room. None of the nobles acknowledges him; no one even looks to see where the sound of his footsteps came from. Jim doesn’t belong in this story anymore, after all. He doesn’t have a role.

There’s only one person in the room that stiffens; only one person whose spine goes rigid in a slow wave from bottom to top, like something is uncurling under their skin. Sebastian’s shoulders drop, lengthening his neck, and Jim can see his chest jerk as he takes an unexpectedly deep breath. Sebastian licks his lips slowly; he hasn’t turned, yet. Hasn’t even made a sound. No shouts of recrimination, no cries of astonishment, no broken whisper of Jim’s name.

It’s incredibly disappointing. Jim crosses his arms, feeling a scowl coming on. That was a hell of an entrance, and it’s very rude for Sebastian to be ignoring him now.

 _Maybe a tiger’s got his tongue._ “You’re _really_ not going to like what I do to pets who act without my permission, _dear_ ,” Jim encourages Sebastian, hoping he will respond. It’s the conversational equivalent of poking a dead thing with a stick to make it jump.

Sebastian shuts his eyes and takes a long, deep breath. His face is a sickly shade of grey. Around them the court is frozen; shock, Jim supposes. Or maybe he’s violated this universe just by existing, and the clock-work toy people can’t go through their stories once they’ve been interrupted.

Shame. Jim rather liked the thought of taking the Italian troll home. She would have been lovely in accounting.

Sebastian still hasn’t spoken, and Jim is beginning to exhaust his reserves of patience. People should _always_ appreciate his entrances. He steps forward over the floor; satisfied with the click of his heels in his Italian leather shoes. No simpering slippers, this time. Sebastian is frozen still as Jim approaches, but Jim can see the fine hairs on his arms quiver as he shakes almost imperceptibly.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” Jim says, louder, a little bit cross, “I am _speaking_ to you. Pay attention or I’ll put barbells through your eardrums.”

 _That_ makes Sebastian turn, slowly dragging his eyes downwards to look at Jim. The thin line of his mouth is white in the left corner, where he’s biting his lip. Jim wonders if he’s bleeding; then they make eye contact, and Jim has the sudden and unpleasant feeling that he’s _misjudged_ Sebastian. Sebastian’s not shocked; he’s _furious._

Surprise is such a completely novel sensation that for an instant Jim enjoys it. Then Sebastian’s hands tighten and twist on the reins. The horse whinnies piercingly as the bit digs in, forcing its head up and around. It rears – Sebastian keeping his seat only by a bare margin – and spins on its back hooves. Jim shies back despite himself, as those it kicks its forelegs out deadly close to his face.

He involuntarily shuts his eyes and misses its hooves slamming back to the floor, although the noise is like a gunshot. When he opens his eyes again Sebastian is already pushing the animal forward, reins gripped tight in one hand, the other reaching out for Jim.

Jim barely has time for an internal grin before he’s swept up onto Sebastian’s pommel like an errant child. Or a feather. He’d forgotten just how _strong_ Sebastian is.

Sebastian doesn’t slow; the horse canters neatly out of the hall, courtiers scrambling and throwing themselves out of its path to avoid getting trampled. The breeze on Jim’s temples is soothing against the warmth of Sebastian’s chest at his back. He wriggles himself further into Sebastian’s lap.

“Hello, handsome,” he purrs, twisting his head into Sebastian’s neck. The warm skin, smelling faintly of sweat, is just _too_ damn tempting. Jim licks a wet line over Sebastian’s neck – salt exploding on his tongue, savory and rich. Sebastian makes a choked sound in his throat, that’s trying for appalled anger and doesn’t even come close. Jim doesn’t listen. He shuts his eyes and leans in enough that he can dig his teeth in over Sebastian’s pulse; feeling the rubbery resistance of skin beneath his teeth, the drumbeat of Sebastian’s heart. _Real, real, real. Here._

_Good boy._

“Thought I got rid of you,” Sebastian says tersely.

Jim stops biting him long enough to reply, “If you think you’re going to get the better of me, _ever,_ you’re going to lead a very disappointed life,” and goes back to what he’s doing. Biting down harder, feeling Sebastian’s texture slip against the bones of his teeth. Each stride of the horse underneath them rocks him back into Sebastian.

Jim wants copper in his mouth. Sebastian’s blood. Sebastian’s heart, inside him, _belonging_ to him. _His._

Sebastian makes a short, pained sound in the back of his throat. The horse’s gait is long and smooth, not hesitating as it carries them toward Sebastian’s castle. The one erected for him by the djinn, if Jim remembers the story correctly. _Debts to be paid, there.._. The air is hot and dry, so arid it sears Jim’s nose as he breathes. He presses a kiss over the bruise he’s left on Sebastian’s neck, and settles himself into Sebastian’s chest.

There’s a hollow in the muscle of Sebastian’s shoulder, where Jim’s ear rests as if it was made to fit there. He feels the rightness of it thrum over his bones, pressing tight against his fingernails. The rush of the wind past them is a physical thing, so loud it sounds like the roar of blood in Jim’s temples. White noise, bright and comforting.

When he opens his eyes the world seems surreally blue. He blinks to clear the colours and glances up at Sebastian. Against the azure sky, Sebastian’s jaw is a hard line like a knife stroke. His teeth must be grinding. Blood pools dark and purple under his skin in the shape of Jim’s teeth. His hair tangles and blows in the wind, gold and light as a halo.

He glances down at Jim, and he’s _glaring._ Jim smiles at Sebastian, reaching up to touch the rough stubble on his jaw. Imperfect. Coarse. _Real._

“I Sent you for a _reason,_ Jim,” Sebastian grits out, tight and frustrated. “Why the hell did you come back?”

Jim strokes Sebastian’s jaw again, considering his answers. Of course, it is different, now. While self-sacrifice might be an _adorable_ trait of Sebastian’s, Jim can feel the uselessness of it at the tips of his fingers. There’s a thinness in the air, where intersecting worlds press at each other; if Jim pushes in the right place, he might be able to touch the void between universes. It’s always present, now that he knows where to look. Waiting for him to find a crossing-place, and shove Sebastian through.

But he hadn’t known, had he? When he asked Mycroft to Send him. Fetching Sebastian hadn’t been the _point._ What had been? What had he meant to do?

Jim frowns to himself. _Before the place-in-between-worlds. Before the possibility of having it all…_ Jim looks up at Sebastian, tanned skin orange against the faultless blue sky. Sebastian glances down, with his eyes narrow.

Jim can’t tell if Sebastian’s squinting against the dust of the air, or searching Jim for a lie. Just to be safe, he tells the truth. “I thought I might give up the world for you.”

The words hang between them, punctuated by the drum of hooves over the dust. Dry desert sand swarms around them, a thousand stinging insects too small to be warded off. Jim can feel it slipping into his brain; gritty particles falling into all the precise gears of his mind, making him choppy and jerky and imprecise.

That’s Sebastian, for you. A wrench in the gears.

Sebastian takes a deep breath. Or maybe he sobs. Jim’s not quite sure.

“You are _,_ ” Sebastian growls, furious, “Fucking _stupid,_ ” grimacing as he presses his lips to Jim’s hair. He breathes something against it that sounds like a prayer, but is probably just a stream of curses. Jim debates telling Sebastian that he didn’t _actually_ give up the world _,_ that now they can go home together, but in the end he just shuts his eyes. Because he is an idiot. After all these years, Jim Moriarty, the-devil-in-Westwood – succumbing to the stupid, ordinary, _boring_ weakness of sentimentality.

Jim rests himself against Sebastian more comfortably, breathing in his smell. Sebastian’s tanned, scarred hands hold the reins perfectly steady. There’s a laugh in Jim’s throat, hopeless and terrified, because Sebastian is _right,_ after all. He is _fucking stupid,_ to put it eloquently.

_…a specific set of circumstances has been theorized for the creation of Abberants…_

If there really is a God, this has to be His most hilarious punishment yet.

\---------

When they get to Sebastian’s palace, the djinn is waiting on the front steps.

The steps themselves are solid gold, one foot run to a two inch rise, ridiculous and opulent and studded with the kind of jewels that are only possible in fairy tales. Jim loves them immediately. Maybe not as much as he loves the faux-Greek columns carved from solid diamond, but he’s willing to be generous. Against the gaudy gleam of the building, the djinn looks like a living oil spill: its skin deep and rich against the shimmering gold. Jim thinks the writing on its skin changes when he blinks, but he’s not sure.

The djinn inclines its head. Its black eyes glisten. Jim, balanced in Sebastian’s lap, nods back; melodramatic and serious as he can manage. Isn’t it just like bad TV? Too bad Jim has to squint with all this reflective material around.

He thinks longingly of the sunglasses he left at Conduit Street.

“This… isn’t part of the story,” Sebastian says carefully. Jim can feel Sebastian’s muscles tense, ready to move, as if Sebastian intends to spring from the horse and go toe-to-toe with the genie.

Jim pats his knee reassuringly and leans forward in the saddle to see if it helps with the glare off the diamonds. “Now, now, dear,” he drawls to Sebastian, “Daddy has some business to take care of.”

“Professor Moriarty,” the djinn rumbles, like a muted roil of thunder. Jim can feel it resonate like a lion’s roar, vibrating in the empty air filling his lungs. He breathes deep, letting it fill him, a low reverberation through his bones. “We have promises to keep.”

“Do we? Mmm. Suppose we do…” Jim considers it for a moment. The djinn stares back, lit from behind with the reflection of gold. The heat of the sun is a physical weight all over Jim’s skin. It slides off the djinn’s glossy blue skin, and goes dancing and shimmering over rubies and emeralds and pure sapphires blue as the Aegean Sea. The djinn doesn’t look out of place, even though it’s the only strand of darkness in the gleam of sheer, extravagant wealth. It simply _is,_ regardless of setting, so sure and present in its own reality that it anchors everything around it. Jim feels the _weight_ of the djinn press at a sense he didn’t know he had, as if it pulls down on the fabric of universes.

It’s a weird feeling; a dip in space-time, or something heavier than that. Jim prods the oddness of the sensation, like poking the hole left behind from a missing tooth. If he tries he can feel the djinn’s gravity pushing towards a center, a well in the darkness of the void between worlds. Jim breaks out in a wide grin. He’s pretty sure he likes the djinn. There’s something _classy_ about it. Not to mention a bit Lovecraftian.

The silence between them might be getting uncomfortable; the djinn hasn’t moved, and neither has Jim. Sebastian shifts restlessly, wanting to continue whatever argument they’d been having.

Jim sighs. _Human minds. So crude and unperceptive._ How can Sebastian stand to break a silence this interesting? But, if they _must_ get on with it…

Jim swings himself down from the saddle – clipping Sebastian’s stomach accidentally-on-purpose with his heel – and ambles forward to stand in front of the djinn. It stares at him; expression inscrutable, its eyes like glittering black stones in its face.

“I promised you freedom,” Jim says, “You promised to deliver him to me.”

“Yes.”

Jim doesn’t _seriously_ intend to break the promise. Not _really_. It doesn’t cost him anything to free a fake genie, after all. But there’s an itch of curiosity under his skin, a sort of whisper – _What could it do? How much of a threat **is** a genie, anyways?_

So, recklessly, Jim tilts his head and hums as if he’s thinking to himself. “Seems to me like you didn’t have much to do with me getting him… Could have done it on my own, really. Feels like it was just _fate.._. Not really _you,_ per say.” Jim grins. _Can’t help teasing._

“Fate?” The djinn’s face goes dark like a storm cloud over the sun. Jim can see his own reflection in its eyes. He can smell its ozone-skin, even with his own sweat trickling through his hair. _Oops. May have misjudged…_ The sun inches towards the highest vault in the sky, slamming down on them like a physical force, but suddenly it’s frozen cold.

Jim takes a breath that tastes like icicles.

“Jim…” Sebastian says behind him, warningly. _Little too late for that, darling…_

“Your fates were close,” the djinn says, watching Jim narrowly, “But not the same. Your lives were woven in parallel threads, not ever meant to touch. And you force them crossed. Would you still speak to me of _fate_?”

Jim can’t help but feel like the question is a warning. Sebastian’s horse snorts behind him, shaking its head and setting its harness jingling. Something is building on the air, like the static charge of a storm.

 _Too far,_ Jim thinks, and nods anyways.

“Your fates are separate things, and tying them is more dangerous than your mind could bear to understand. It is impossible. It is an abomination. And yet, you have done it.” The static pressure of the air begins to build, at first slow, then quick and ominous until even the bright sun seems to darken. Jim feels the djinn’s voice _move_ something inside him. He feels something press against his organs from the underside, an uncomfortable sense of his _self_ extending deep into a strange and unfamiliar dimension. It’s like the djinn is touching a hollow drum, only under his skin. _That’s new… not sure I **like** that…_ “There are times and places where you meet and love and die, and he swears devotion in blood and fire. There are worlds where death parts you, and worlds where even that is not enough. Across the span of universes you are bound and tied like snakes coiled round each other, your lives twisted tighter than the smallest thread of silk, and yet _here_ , **_now_** _,_ the two of you were never meant to be.” As far as Jim knows he’s still on his feet, but he feels like he’s falling anyways. The djinn’s voice worms against the marrow of his bones, penetrating and repulsive. “When it comes to those who break destinies, I make no prophecy. It is you who do impossible things, after all. You who warped the world to bring him to your heel. And who am I, to dictate you keep your word?”

The djinn stops to take a breath, and the static spell of its voice breaks. Light returns to the world. Jim sways on his feet, gulping down air, and tries not to feel like his lungs have become too small. The hollow feeling, the sense of having a new dimension stretching down inside him, dwindles and withers, until Jim’s half sure he dreamed it. The aftermath feels something like needing a shower, only on the _inside_ ; as if there’s something on his intestines he needs to scrub off. Jim shudders. He’s all for new things, but not if they feel like _muck_ on his _internal organs._

The djinn lifts a hand, as if to touch Jim’s chest. He jerks himself rigidly back rather that allow it to steady him. The chains on its wrists make a soft noise to themselves, like chimes.

Sebastian gasps for air, like he’d forgotten to breathe until that moment.

“Perhaps it is you, who holds all the power here, Shadow King,” the djinn says, finally, softly; looking at Jim with a sadness so deep and old he feels dizzy. “Perhaps you may have the world you like, and never face consequences. Who can tell?” Its hand falls, and its shoulders shift in something suspiciously like a shrug. “For you, James Moriarty, I do not prophecy. It is a great and terrible thing, to strong-arm destiny.” Its black-within-black eyes meet Jim’s, cold and implacable and utterly inhuman. Inside them, Jim can see that _thing_ stirring; that impossible pressure that writhed in his deepest places. Against his will, he shudders. “But I have been great and terrible as well, in my time,” the djinn finishes, so gently its voice is a caress rather than a threat.

Jim definitely _doesn’t_ take a half-step back. That wouldn’t be right, for a Shadow King. But he finds himself a step backwards anyways. Sebastian’s horse whickers nervously. The djinn stands where it is, hands loose by its sides, and seems to fold back into itself until all that’s left is a dark-skinned being that might be mistaken for human. At a distance.

Jim’s breath hisses over his teeth. _File ‘messing with a genie’ under **you’d rather fuck a live atom bomb –**_

“If I get a vote,” Sebastian says behind him, voice strained, “ _Keep your fucking word.”_

Sebastian has his moments of brilliance.

“I never really meant to break it,” Jim mumbles apologetically. He thinks he sees something like amusement in the djinn’s eyes. Jim curses desperately at himself. His face feels hot. To cover the misstep, Jim reaches out for its wrists. “How do I…” he starts, letting his curiosity override his embarrassment.

The djinn looks over his shoulder, at Sebastian. “My owner must,” it says simply. Sebastian drops to the dirt from his saddle with a loud _thunk_ and a cloud of dust. The djinn stares at him. Jim doesn’t even turn to look at Sebastian; the djinn is far more interesting, now. Its expression can only be described as _hungry._ Jim recognizes it; from addicts, and torture victims watching the killing stroke. The djinn looks surprisingly human, even as the black writing on its skin writhes and twists with increased speed. Sebastian leaves his horse where it is, and comes to stand at Jim’s shoulder. Jim doesn’t look at him at first; too fascinated by the djinn. Its shoulders twitch, as it tries hard to stay still. Jim can practically feel the ache of desire twisting around it.

_Well, well. All slaves are the same after all._

“Jim,” Sebastian says.

Jim jumps, and looks up at him with a scowl. Sebastian raises his eyebrows. He’s waiting for permission. Slightly mollified by the consideration, Jim nods. Before he turns to the djinn, Sebastian’s lip twitches up on the left, as if signalling that he’d like to smile but can’t.

The djinn raises its wrists, holding them even, turned up in front of Sebastian. Where a human would have a pulse, the djinn has thin slashes of black like cuts. Like the gold chains have burned into it, over and over, leaving scars behind. Against its wrists, the links are delicate as lace, barely thicker than ribbons. They’ve been hammered shut. Whoever bound the djinn never allowed for the possibility of escape. Jim’s stomach twists around a knot of bile, and he scowls. Even for Jim, there’s something fundamentally _wrong_ about staking the wind to the ground; especially when you could just sort of… _suggest_ to a hurricane where the best houses to chew up might be.

“What do I have to do?” Sebastian asks, brisk and to the point.

“Will it so,” the djinn replies, curt with the effort of holding back, “And touch the chains.” Jim can see it tremble under the ache of being so _close_ to having what it wants, ink-blue skin raised up in thin lines like goose bumps..

Sebastian reaches forward and brushes his fingers over the golden chains. They crumble, turning to a shower of glittering dust that pours over the djinn’s wrists like sand.

 _Anti-climactic,_ Jim thinks in disappointment. He frowns exaggeratedly, a Pierrot clown.

“Did you anticipate it would be a show?” the djinn asks him. _Definitely_ amused. It pulls its wrists tight to its chest, rubbing them as if to check that the chains are _unquestionably_ gone.

Jim glances up sharply just to make sure it isn’t mocking him. “You could have set yourself free just by walking through a crowded market,” his mouth says, before his brain can catch up, “I know a few pick-pockets who do this sort of thing sixteen times before noon…”

Sebastian chokes. The djinn throws back its head and laughs. It’s got shockingly white teeth, considering its skin, and its tongue is bright neon blue like a poisonous lizard. It shakes its head at them both. “It had to be my human owner,” it explains, as if to a very small child, “And who would give up my service willingly?” The djinn’s white teeth flash again in its dark face. It drops its hands, and shakes them out at its sides. Jim can imagine how the air feels over its wrists; the silken caress wind must be there. Freedom, tangible. The djinn shakes its head thoughtfully, then its eyes slide from Jim to Sebastian.

Jim has the very odd feeling that the djinn is at a height to look them both in the eye without tilting its head either way, even though Sebastian is a good foot taller than Jim.

“There is one thing I would like you to set right, before you go,” the djinn says finally.

“Set right…?” Sebastian starts. He glances at Jim, but Jim shrugs.

_Damned if I know._

“A mess you have left in your wake,” the djinn tells them. Before Jim can ask it what it means, the djinn gestures. The smell of ozone grows so thick on the air that Jim’s eyes water, and he has to squint to keep them open. Air rasps in Sebastian’s throat as he breathes at Jim’s shoulder, wispy and thin. Jim starts to feel light-headed; dark spots appear on his vision. Against the bright gilt of the stair-well, the djinn looks like a black hole.

And then the blackness is growing, overpowering everything, swallowing the world.

 _Got a real fetish for suffocating me,_ Jim thinks blindly; his mouth open, his lungs sucking in great heaving gasps that are too thin to keep him alive. Jim’s knees start to go weak. He makes a face, screws his legs straight, and refuses to sway: even as he can feel the darkness starting to shut down several things in his head that he thinks might be important. _I am **not,**_ he promises himself, **_Not_** _fainting because of a fucking genie –_

_When this is over, I am **banning** Aladdin from all of London, I bloody fucking **swear** – _

There’s a loud _pop_ as oxygen snaps back into the air.

Jim can hear the sharp sound of bone on rock as Sebastian falls to his knees, and it’s only by driving his teeth through his lip that Jim stays upright at all. It takes several truly depressing seconds to stop feeling like he’s tried to climb Mount Everest for fun. Jim presses a hand to his chest, trying not to get dizzy, as his body re-adjusts to having _survivable_ levels of oxygen.

When Jim’s brain is online again, he gets a good look at what’s in front of him, and considers very carefully _throwing a tantrum_.

The djinn is gone, first of all. Not that he blames it. Freedom is one thing, _friendship_ might be pushing it. And besides, it’d have a lovely skin to hang on Jim’s wall, and it would be a distracting bit of entertainment to figure out how to kill it.

The palace is gone too, which is a bit more disappointing than the djinn. The things Jim could have done with that money…

In place of the palace, the djinn has left Irene Adler; or rather, her unconscious body. A strangled laugh bubbles up through Jim’s throat, and he stumbles over to check her pulse. It’s there, alright. Strong. Her pale skin is marred with the dust of the desert. It’s caught in her hair, ashen patches against the mahogany darkness.

“I know her,” Sebastian rasps, in a voice like gravel talking.

“Of course you do.” Jim giggles again. He pinches Adler’s cheek, because he can, hard enough to leave a red welt. “Can’t keep a good bitch down,” he says fondly, and rumples her hair up. “Oh, I suppose we might as well take her back.” Giggles keep rumbling around in Jim’s chest, and he can’t stop them. It’s just too perfect. Throw Irene in a threshing machine, and he’s pretty sure she’d come out – maybe not in one piece, but definitely _alive._ “The little _snake._ ”

“I’m missing something,” Sebastian says, confused and frustrated by it. Jim looks over his shoulder. On his knees in the dirt, Sebastian looks back; dust blowing over his blonde hair, tangling it up into messy spikes. The backs of his hands are scarred, and his lip twists raggedly upwards at the edge. _He’ll never be handsome,_ Jim thinks. Not really. He’ll always be broken, and a little too rough.

Blowing grass whistles in his fingers when his betters are talking. Crawling out of a drain-pipe, half-disembowelled and laughing. Staring at Jim with that mix of fascination and frustration, terrified and lusting and furious.

Jim takes a deep breath. “I may have lied,” he says to Sebastian.

“Oh?” Sebastian asks, careful.

Jim can feel his eyes probing at the edges of Jim’s mood, trying to judge its size and heat. “I didn’t give up the world for you. I mean, I _meant_ to. But in the end…” he holds up a hand.

Knowing as he does, that his fingers are glowing. Sebastian’s eyes go wide.

Jim concentrates: reaching out with a muscle or a sense only reachable from the very edges of his brain. He can feel it, like a second heart beating beside his. The space _between._ There’s a patch of air near Irene where it’s very close indeed, the border so thin a breath might reach across to a different world.

“Jim…” Sebastian breathes, a whisper on the desert wind.

 _Can’t be that hard,_ Jim tells himself. He reaches down and grabs Irene’s temples, mimicking what Mycroft had done to him. He can feel the thin place, and _his_ world, _home,_ like a lodestone in the dark. Irene’s mind is malleable beneath his hands; he can feel the links holding her to this world, the subtle tricks of consciousness that keep her in reality.

For a split second Jim wonders what would happen if he simply severed them, let her mind drift without any tether whatsoever. But it isn’t the point. He disengages her gently, cups her in his hands, and knits her mind to _home._

If those are the words to describe it. After all, it’s like crocheting with pure colour. Like making sound into bridges. Like a knot made of wind and sunlight and memories. He feels them take hold; and then her mind is drawn, like an elastic band snapping into place, across the divide within worlds.

There’s a distinct _popping_ noise.

Jim blinks. He has no idea whatsoever how much time has passed. When he looks down, though, Irene is gone, so – success? Apparently? Jim takes a deep breath. There’s a satisfied ache in his gut, like the aftermath of a workout without the mess and unpleasantness of, well… a workout.

“Jim,” Sebastian repeats behind him, more insistently. Jim turns. Sebastian is halfway up from his knees, in a ready crouch. He looks like a spring wound tight, like a cat about to pounce. He’s got a wild look in his eye, half-mad, half-awed.

Jim grins. “So how ‘bout it, Tin Soldier – feel like following me home?”

Sebastian barrels forward into him without a word. Jim laughs, feeling the connections break and bind inside his head the instant Sebastian’s hands touch his skin. The void pulls him in. The crossing starts to form. Jim barely has time to twine his fingers in Sebastian’s hair and reciprocate, snapping connections and tying them home with desperate speed. The light of Aberrancy flares around them, a subtle star against the desert sand.

Jim’s feet knock out from out of him. They start to fall backwards. Electricity dances between them, blue and hot and smelling of ozone.

They never hit the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\---------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim notices first that he is standing. Then the other sensations start to drift in; one at a time, as if they’ve been politely waiting their turns. Lemon furniture polish. Honey. Blood, the scent so old and crusted in the air that it’ll never come out. Jim inhales deeply. He barely feels Sebastian’s fingers slide over his arm; he’s lost in the light brush of a breeze over his skin. The whisper of mosquito netting over his bed, gauzy fabric brushing against itself like the most subtle of wind chimes.

Jim opens his eyes slowly: scared reality won’t be able to bear the weight of observation. But it’s all there; plush white carpet, the comforter so thick and crisp it’s like a starched cloud. The great sweep of the bay windows, arching floor to ceiling, letting in snow-tinted sunshine.

And Sebastian, blond hair so white it nearly matches the walls; as if, all along, Jim had designed his bedroom to hold Seb in it.

Sebastian’s breath is caught, his chest frozen half way through inhaling. His mouth twitches, flickering between shock and laughter. He licks his lips, and blinks. His head shakes a fraction. He looks stunned, wondering.

Jim lifts his hand, grabs the back of Sebastian’s neck, and drags him downwards. There isn’t anything to say, really. Nothing that matches the breathlessness of Sebastian, home with him. The air feels delicate and fragile and precious, like blown-glass, so beautiful and evanescent that the moment the silence breaks, it will all go shattering outward.

Perfection is the most friable thing in the world.

Sebastian’s lips hover above Jim’s, the heat of his breath pillowed against Jim’s skin. Time slips away between them, the perfect moment ending, the quivering _realness_ of it seeping away and becoming mundane.

Jim shuts his eyes.

Sebastian’s lips press against his. Jim’s chest aches, as if what is inside him is too large for his ribcage. Underneath his skin there is something vast and uncontainable, and he might fly apart from the pressure of letting himself feel it. Whatever it is.

They’ve made it.

They’re home.

Sebastian’s arm slides around Jim’s waist, hugging him closer. The kiss is still tentative; fragile. Jim tilts his head back, clinging closer to Sebastian’s chest. He cups Sebastian’s face in his hands, gripping tight enough that he feels muscle shift over Sebastian’s bones. Sebastian moans into Jim’s mouth, quietly enough that the sound rests lightly on top of their silence instead of breaking it.

Maybe Sebastian feels it too: the brittleness of time. How this moment is too good to actually be real, and if they move too fast, they’ll break it entirely.

There’s a lurch in Jim’s stomach and just like that, he hates time for being fragile. Hates all the things that have kept him from Sebastian, who is _his._ Nothing should take Jim’s things away.

So damn perfection for being breakable. Jim throws it away just to spite it. He digs his fingers hard into the pressure point at the back of Sebastian’s jaw, ripping a growl from Sebastian loud enough that all the spun-glass beauty of hesitation shatters in an instant. Jim’s tongue shoves into Sebastian’s mouth, in the same motion that his thigh shoves up between Sebastian’s legs. The next noise Sebastian makes sounds like someone’s punched him in the gut. Jim can feel Sebastian’s cock twitch and swell as he rubs his thigh against it, Sebastian’s breath caught in his hot, wet mouth.

There’s nothing fragile about them. Nothing breakable.

No one will _ever_ tear them apart again.

Jim kisses Sebastian like a curse, ravaging his mouth, ripping into him with sharp savage bites that he doesn’t bother to soothe. Sebastian can hardly keep up: he chases Jim’s mouth, getting in all the wrong places. His tongue is caught between Jim’s teeth, then his lip, then their teeth clash together, awkward and heated and desperate.

It’s like playing two out of tune notes simultaneously, the jarring dissonance of it setting Jim’s skin to vibrating. _Yes._ He digs his fingernails in to Sebastian’s jaw, rakes them backwards over Sebastian’s scalp. He can feel blond hair caught and pulled beneath his nails, ripped out piece by piece from Sebastian’s head. _Yes._ _This is mine, and this and this and this –_

Sebastian catches Jim’s tone, _finally,_ and they sink into harmony like a tumbler slamming down in a lock. Jim’s shirt bunches into Sebastian’s fist, ripped out from his trousers, baring the skin of his back for Sebastian’s nails. There’s a sharp jolt of pain as Sebastian grips his hair, yanks his head backwards so far that the awkward angle makes it hard for Jim to suck in air.

He pulls taut, suffocating in Sebastian’s arms, the slick crush of their mouths leaving no room for anything as boring as breathing.

Jim moans, and Sebastian growls, triumphant and bestial. The next breath Jim draws is empty, as Sebastian’s mouth seals over Jim’s jugular. From the ripping pain that follows, he’s trying to tear Jim’s throat out.

Jim doesn’t mind. He clutches at Sebastian’s hair, nails gouging into Sebastian’s scalp, and tosses his head as far back as his neck can stretch. His trousers are growing uncomfortably tight; he can feel the hard press of his leather belt against the tip of his cock, rigid and unforgiving. When Sebastian grinds himself forward, rocking himself against Jim’s thigh, the rough push of his body against Jim is _unbearable._

Even through god knows how many layers of fabric Jim can feel the heat of Sebastian’s cock, the pulse of Sebastian’s heartbeat.

“ _Bed,_ ” he growls at the ceiling, barely able to get the words out past Sebastian’s teeth in his throat, “ _Bed,_ pet, _now –_ “

Thank god Sebastian isn’t a patient man. He tears himself away and drags Jim with him to the bed without protesting, without teasing. Simple and crude and Neanderthal, and _Christ,_ isn’t Jim grateful for _that._ Sebastian tosses Jim onto the bed. The comforter pillows around him, crushed flat underneath his body, and he barely has time to start back up before Sebastian is on him. Lips, first, then his hands like manacles on Jim’s wrists, then the weight of his chest pinning Jim to the bed. Jim snarls and bites and writhes, and it doesn’t matter. Jim hisses through his teeth. He plants his feet on the bed to grind himself upwards, jamming his cock against the hard muscle of Sebastian’s stomach. The ache building in his stomach doesn’t even seem to _want_ to ease. Jim snarls, burying his teeth in his own lip.

 _Damned_ if he’s going to beg.

Sebastian’s teeth sink into the tendon of Jim’s neck, so close to breaking it that Jim’s spine twitches in instinctive fear. He loses all the air in his lungs at once, feels his ribcage collapse downward, and Sebastian doesn’t let up – pinning Jim even closer to the bed. If they were pressed any harder together, they’d be sharing the same skin.

Jim growls in mindless fury and jerks his neck to the side out of the reach of Sebastian’s mouth. Seb pulls back just enough to look at Jim. His blue irises are dark, nearly swallowed in pupil. Jim feels the top of his lip twitch upwards in a sneer, and snaps, “Let my hands go.”

Sebastian’s canines show as he smiles breathlessly. “Why?”

“If we aren’t naked in under a minute, _dear,_ ” Jim snarls back, “I will _leave_ you where I _found_ you. And you can fuck the _princess_ instead. She looks _patient._ ” Empty threats. Of course they are. Sebastian laughs, but he obeys anyways, and whatever – as long as Jim gets what he wants, he can punish Sebastian later.

As soon as Sebastian’s grip loosens Jim jerks his hands free and yanks at the bottom of Sebastian’s shirt. As close as they are, with Sebastian’s weight on his hands, the action is more frustrating than successful. But somehow, between the two of them, they wrestle it off: impressive, considering at the same time Sebastian’s fumbling at the front of Jim’s no-longer neat button-down. Unfortunate that his hands seem to be _precisely_ in Jim’s way.

Need is so hot in Jim’s gut he’s not sure if he’s angry or just going insane with desire. There’s skin in front of his mouth – Sebastian’s neck, or his shoulder, or _something_ – damp with sweat and salty. Jim bites down, barely hearing the dim gasp Sebastian makes over him. His fingers find a button – probably Sebastian’s trousers, there’s a belt, and when the _hell_ did belts get this difficult to undo –

Then the sheer, soft fabric of Sebastian’s pants –

Then finally, _finally,_ searing hot and rigid underneath Jim’s fingers, bare skin.

Sebastian makes a sound like he’s being gutted.

Jim fists his hand around Sebastian’s cock and jerks – not bothering with anything so ordinary as _gentle_ or _considerate_ or _pleasant._ He grinds his teeth into Sebastian’s skin harder, and Sebastian cries out like a drowning man. Capillaries burst under Jim’s teeth. He’s dimly aware that Sebastian’s hands are shoving his trousers and pants down as best they can be shoved down. Dimly aware when Sebastian digs his nails into the over-sensitive, tortured skin of Jim’s hips and thighs.

Sebastian’s hand wrapped around his cock isn’t a shock; it’s thunder-and-lightning directly into Jim’s back brain. Jim’s not sure if his grip loosens on Sebastian’s cock or goes tight – all he knows is the spasm of every nerve in his body firing at once, as he jerks forward into Sebastian’s hand. The callouses on Sebastian’s fingers rub roughly over his glans; a dull, stinging pain, when Jim already feels like he’s on fire entirely.

Jim’s head drops back on the pillows, lips parted, panting. His eyes might be open, but he’s not seeing anything. Sebastian never hesitates. He strokes Jim tight and quick and hard. It might count as _cruel,_ because it’s doing something to Jim’s brain that makes it impossible to think; impossible even to focus on Sebastian coming equally undone.

He wants to give as good as he gets. He wants Sebastian panting and whimpering and _begging_ underneath him.

Fuck, he doesn’t want to get off from a _handjob,_ like some virginal teenage _boy –_

Jim nearly cries out _stop,_ because there’s so much more that he wants. But the noises falling from his lips don’t seem to be _protests._ Jim is moaning Sebastian’s name; clutching at Sebastian’s shoulders until his fingers go white, too mindless even to give back the pleasure he’s getting. He’s utterly selfish and needy, forgetting everything but the sheer unbearable closeness of the pleasure building inside his skull.

Sebastian isn’t helping; growling, “Yes, Jim, _fuck,_ yes, god, you’re so hot – “ in his ear. And then there’s the smell of Sebastian’s skin. The faint reek of blood on the air, old or new, impossible to tell. The brush of Sebastian’s hair against Jim’s cheek as Sebastian bends his head to the sheets and breathes in Jim’s desperate, hitching moans –

Shimmering white oblivion sparks down Jim’s limbs. His fingers feel cold and numb and bloodless, and everywhere around him there is Sebastian – Sebastian’s weight pinning him down, Sebastian’s fist tight around his cock, Sebastian’s thumb sliding slick through his pre-cum as he caps Jim on every stroke, and oh –

_Oh –_

Jim can’t even try for control.

He feels the wet press of blood under his fingernails as he grabs Sebastian’s back, and his body implodes into the violent surrender of climax.

\---------

“A hundred years,” Sebastian wonders, as if he’s not aware that it’s out loud. Jim shifts his head where it’s pillowed on Sebastian’s arm, looking up at him. Sebastian is staring up at the ceiling through the mosquito netting, a slight frown knitting his brow and leaving wrinkles. Jim pushes himself up off the mattress and props himself on an elbow to get a better look.

Sebastian’s eyes slide to him, heavy-lidded and lazy. He smiles. “You look delicious,” he says.

Jim scowls at him. “Don’t kiss ass, dear, it doesn’t suit you.”

Sebastian just smiles. Jim huffs. He walks his fingers up Sebastian’s scars, to his collarbone, over the smooth and twisted skin like melted glass. “A hundred years,” he agrees, finally. “Are you scared?”

Jim doesn’t know if he wants Sebastian to say yes or no.

“Of you?” Sebastian asks, still smiling, fragile and sweet – if sweet is an expression Sebastian can even muster. He shrugs, as best he can flat on his back. Dried sweat makes his skin sticky. When Jim pulls his fingers back and pops them into his mouth, he can taste after-shocks of pleasure in the salt.

Jim licks his fingers clean, and sets them to wandering down Sebastian’s torso again; seeing if he can stretch his index finger to touch one scar, with his thumb set on another. Like a connect-the-dot puzzle. Like stars.

Sebastian slides his hand over Jim’s jaw, and tilts his head up. “Always,” he teases, “I’m just _terrified_ of you, Princess.”

Jim, despite himself, laughs at the sheer audacity of it. He leans forward to kiss Sebastian. There’s dried blood on Sebastian’s lips; god knows where it came from.

“I’ll make you pay for that,” he tells Sebastian fondly.

Sebastian murmurs something indistinct. Outside the window, a siren blares. It’s raining. Jim can hear the drops as they speckle the glass like spray from an arterial bleed. In the street outside, cars roar by like hurricane winds. There’s the musical cascade of a windchime, out of place in the middle of London. Someone’s car beeps as they lock it. Every small sound seems extraordinary and precious, and Jim tries to memorize it all.

Sebastian pulls back from the kiss. His skin is dark against the white sheets, his hair silken, looking dirty from sweat. “How much has London changed?” he asks.

“Oh, completely,” Jim replies flippantly, “But I own it, see, so it shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

Sebastian’s fingers trail up Jim’s spine. “Got a place for me set out?” he asks.

“If you’re a good doggy,” Jim replies, swiping the blood from his lip, “You can play fetch for me. Oh, dear. You’ve so much to learn. Assault rifles and high-rises and _war…_ ”

“War never changes,” Sebastian tells him, grinning. “Besides, what are you talking about? _Civilian._ ” He makes it an insult, so Jim flicks him in the nose.

“Don’t be _smart,_ pet. You’re a dear little _baby_ , in my world. All innocent and useless… I’ll have to keep you on _charity,_ I’ve never tried that before…”

“Like hell. Give me a month,” Sebastian declares boldly, “And I’ll be more useful than anyone else you have…”

“You’re good for _nothing_ , always will be – ” Jim sings back, and muffles Sebastian’s protests in a kiss.

Jim’s betting _three_ months, himself.

\---------

 

\---------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

\---------

It’s only two and a half months until Sebastian’s ready to work; which means Jim’s wrong, but it’s a pleasant sort of wrong that doesn’t bother him _that_ much. And it’s not bad, the waiting. Some of it might even count as _fun._

Granted, most of the first few months are so tedious Jim wants to pull his hair out in fistfuls and play whack-a-mole with Sebastian’s skull.

Sebastian finds the modern world to be a revolving fucking door of wonder; dry-cleaners, the queue at the super-market, malls and debit cards and cell-phones. Nothing is too inane to escape his attention, or too fucking _mind-blowingly_ dull. Which means that Jim spends one of the most terrifying evenings of his life on the phone with two Russian mob-bosses, trying to stop a nuclear war with one hand while he teaches Sebastian the finer points of a microwave with the other.

_(“This is fucking insane, Jim. In-fucking-sane. Do you have any idea how fucking crazy this all is?”_

_“Sebastian. I have a fucking headache, could you – Net! Net! Ne vzorvat' etu chertovu zdaniye!”)_

When they go to bed on that first Friday night, Jim buries his face in Sebastian’s chest. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he grunts against Sebastian’s scars. Sebastian’s laugh rumbles through his chest, against Jim’s lips.

“You brought me here,” Sebastian reminds Jim, sounding amused. There’s something off about his voice, though: a tenseness, like Sebastian is a string wound too tight. Jim looks up and searches Sebastian’s face. Underneath the teasing bravado, there’s a thin wisp of fear. Sebastian’s not an idiot, after all. He knows how easily he can be cast aside. Jim looks away, takes a moment to gather himself, and forces down the flash-fire of frustration in his stomach.

“I can afford to wait for you to learn,” he says, “You’re my pet. Don’t forget it.”

The whisper of the mosquito netting in the breeze drowns out Sebastian’s silence, and Jim’s eyes shut tight rather than see his expression.

\----------

By the middle of the second week it’s getting better.

Sebastian, given the basics of a laptop, sits Jim forcefully down at the kitchen table and snaps, “I’m not a fucking Neanderthal, Jim, I can figure this shit out if you give me half a chance. Now go back to work and stop breathing down my fucking neck.” His eyes are blue flecks of rock, hard and unyielding. Jim tries to stare him down for all of a half-second, then he shrugs and swipes toast off the caterer’s tray.

Hard to argue with getting what you want.

“Whatever you say, dear,” Jim chirps gleefully at Sebastian, before leaving him with a laptop, the caterer’s number, and Wikipedia as a homework assignment.

Jim can only hope Sebastian tries to _finish_ his assigned reading.

By the next Friday, Sebastian can be trusted to go to the market on his own. He’s also figured out sixteen hundred new methods of murder that hadn’t been possible in the nineteenth century, and converted the third floor of the building into an extensive gym. With Jim’s contractors. Without telling Jim.

 _Okay,_ Jim thinks, staring at the weight machine Sebastian swiped Jim’s credit card to pay for, almost _giddy_ with surprise. _Maybe this **is** going to work._

\--

Still, _fun_ isn’t _exactly_ the word for ninety-nine-point-nine percent of teaching a nineteenth-century soldier to be a twenty-first century criminal. Nothing is easy to learn, as a golden rule. Jim might have even gotten a teensy bit _frustrated,_ if it weren’t for two notable exceptions to said rule: Number one, cars. Number two, _guns_.

The first time Sebastian feels the thrum of an engine, a real engine, he’s behind the wheel of the sweet little Audi Jim bought for a rainy day. The experienced stunt-driver that Jim blackmailed into giving pointers is in the passenger seat, sweating and looking pale enough to be dead already. Sebastian starts the car, and when it roars to life beneath him he throws his head back and laughs out loud. He sounds more than a little mad, and entirely feral. Jim’s chest aches, heat pressing unbearably at his ribcage like he’s swallowed a sun. Sebastian looks up through the window at him, eyes gleaming.

“Oh,” Sebastian says, a low purr that sounds delicious even through the glass, “I know what to do with _this._ ”

They’re on a racetrack outside of London, but it only takes two passes before Jim wishes he and Sebastian were alone on a winding road. Somewhere dark and completely isolated; where they could go a hundred k and no one would stop them. Sebastian doesn’t so much take to vehicles as he masters them with the intense, focused ferocity only passion can manage. It barely takes him three days before the stunt driver – still pale and shaking, although come to think of it, that might be the _blackmail_ rather than Sebastian’s _driving_ – passes him to drive on the street. Within two weeks, he’s a better driver than Jim is.

Jim even considers _using_ Sebastian as a driver; after all, Seb whips sports cars around tight corners like the wheels have turned into wings, like the metal itself bends to obey his desires. It would be a waste of his physical strength just to keep him in a car, of course, but Jim considers it anyways.

That is, of course, before he hands Sebastian a gun.

 _After_ that, there’s only one choice Jim can make.

\--

When they first got back to the modern world Jim took the precaution of buying Sebastian an old Lee-Metford to make him comfortable. The bolt action rifle is a genuine antique, stamped for service in 1890, but Sebastian barely touches it. At first, this strikes Jim as _inconsiderate._ After all, he’d gone through a bit of time and trouble to _find_ one in working order, let alone pay to acquire it…

But in this case, the frustration doesn’t last.

If cars are a passion, guns _consume_ Sebastian. Guns are an obsession, a fire that burns under Sebastian’s skin.Jim starts waking up at odd hours of the night to find the bed cold and uncreased beside him. He slips out of bed and takes the service lift to the basement of the building, down through the shops to the dark place underneath London’s streets.

There are tunnels down here. Someone could get lost forever in them.

Sebastian never goes far from the gun-cage, and the tiny indoor range that Jim had set up when he bought out Conduit Street. Jim learns not to turn on the lights after the first time he finds Sebastian down there in the dark, and earns a howling curse for making it suddenly _bright._ While the shouting is funny, it _does_ contribute to Jim sleeping entirely alone for a week.

He doesn’t like that as much as he used to.

See, Sebastian loses track of time in the basement, and his eyes adjust to the dark. He keeps it so dim there’s barely enough light to see your hands in front of your face even at noon; and at night it’s no different. Jim stands at the entrance of the gun-cage in his bare feet and stares until he can make out the dim shape of Sebastian, polishing weaponry. At first he barely understands what he’s doing; but the ignorance doesn’t last long.

Sebastian takes to modern rifles the way some people take to crack cocaine. He haunts the gun-cage: a specter conjured by spent shells and the smell of gunpowder. While Jim goes to work Sebastian learns each gun down to its component parts; feeling them, in the dark, hands sure and gentle as another man might be with a lover. He takes them apart and puts them back together piece by well-oiled piece, over and over until Jim can hear the sound of it in his dreams.

To Sebastian the guns are a deadly puzzle; solved half on instinct, almost entirely blind. His answers are proved on the firing range. There’s a clean row of ruined targets there every morning, left where they hang when Sebastian stumbles exhausted to bed. Jim wonders privately if Sebastian ever fucks up. If he ever puts his puzzles together wrong, and a misplaced piece blows the gun out of his hands. If one day, Sebastian will come back less an index finger, and it will be driving for him after all.

But while Sebastian always smells of gun-powder, he never smells of blood. He never fucks up. His hands grow swift and sure and confident, and the targets are bullseye – bullseye – bullseye –

One night Jim finds Sebastian sitting down in the cage with the lights on, the swivel chair shoved back so he can prop his boots up on the counter.

“Not working?” Jim asks. Sebastian’s hands are clean, and the rag for gun-oil on the table behind him is still white.

“Mmm…” Sebastian says, not looking around. He’s staring at the guns with a distant look on his face. Jim steps down into the cage, and tangles his fingers in Sebastian’s blond hair. He tugs Sebastian’s head back, to see his expression more clearly.

Sebastian smiles lazily upwards, making no move to stand. “I know them now,” he says. There’s no hesitation in his voice. No room for doubt.

“Are you ready?” Jim asks. Sebastian’s eyes under the fluorescent light are nearly colourless.

They slide slowly shut. “Yes,” Sebastian says simply.

“Show me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\---------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The M&P Shield lies disassembled on the table in front of Sebastian.

“Is this what you prefer?” Jim asks curiously, trailing his fingers over it. The range is empty, except for them. The targets set up on their roller tracks hang like corpses on ropes down the range.

Sebastian grins at Jim wolfishly. “Can’t use your rifles indoors,” he replies, “I’ve seen the specs.” A low whistle. “Love to see what a fifty cal bullet would do to the walls…”

“By all means. And I’ll use your _fingers_ to patch the holes.” Jim smiles back at Sebastian, the threat more than half empty. Sebastian just winks. Jim slides impact earmuffs on and double checks that they’re properly in place before he gestures at the gun. “Don’t you want to do more than gossip?” he goads.

Sebastian’s wolf-grin goes sharp and hungry. “Well, when you put it that way…” He turns to the table. Jim leans up against the wall, watching. Sebastian’s hands flick over the pieces of the gun, touching each one as if they burn a signature into his fingertips. Then he clasps his hands behind him, shuts his eyes, and nods.

Jim lets the silence stretch thin; drinking in the rare chance just to _observe_ Sebastian. The rise and fall of his chest as he barely manages to contain his excitement; the strands of light hair tangled in the strap of his earmuffs; the gunpowder smudge on his finger already. He’s wearing a tight-fitting black cotton shirt and loose jeans, and Jim doesn’t remember buying either item for him.

Jim smiles to himself. _Wouldn’t it be something, if you **are** ready…_

“Alright,” he says, finally, “ _Go._ ”

Sebastian’s fingers find the slide first. There’s a soft sound of metal on metal as he slides the barrel into place. His hands never hesitate; he’s already reaching for the next piece as the barrel settles. When Sebastian’s fingers stroke along the recoil assembly to check that it’s straight, his eyelids flutter. As if he wishes they could open, just to be sure...

“Ah-h…” Jim breathes, warningly, but Sebastian’s sure already. He doesn’t come close to opening his eyes. As soon as the motion is over he’s got the frame in hand. The click of the slide locking in seems deafening. Jim realizes almost belatedly that he’s holding his breath, and lets it go in a long, slow rush.

Not that he needs to. Not that he’s picturing those quick, deft fingers, or remembering how they feel on his skin.

Another click. Sebastian racks the slide with the familiar chk- _chk_ sound of a Hollywood gunfight, and raises the pistol. He fires it blind and empty down the range, racks again, fires again.

Then the magazine, sliding home. Only when the gun’s live and Sebastian’s thumbed the safety off does he open his eyes. His finger slides over the trigger. Both eyes open, he sights down the barrel.

Jim’s lungs burn. He’s holding his breath again. Sebastian’s gaze is narrow, focused, intent. It’s also ranking among the hottest things Jim’s ever seen. Jim can’t help but jump when Sebastian fires; with each sharp retort of the gun, muffled by his earmuffs, he feels his spine squirm against the wall.

Explosions, contained by Sebastian’s calloused and capable hands.

 _Tin Soldier,_ he’d said, mocking. He doesn’t feel mocking anymore. Jim watches Sebastian empty the clip into a paper target and his mouth goes dry. Sebastian takes his finger off the trigger, and lets the gun slide slowly downwards, until it’s pointing at the table. He clicks the safety on. He sets it down.

When Sebastian turns to face Jim, his eyes are blown and his lips are parted. _Firing a gun triggers the same reaction in the brain as a passionate kiss,_ some part of Jim’s back-brain supplies helpfully.

And just like that, Jim knows what he’s going to do.

\---------

Jim doesn’t find it difficult to catch Sebastian unawares, simply because there’s no way for Sebastian to be aware a hundred percent of the time. He has to sleep, after all. Jim waits until Sebastian’s breathing goes slow and regular against the white sheets, then shimmies his way delicately out of bed. Moonlight filters through the gauzy curtains over the windows, making the room seem like a dream. Outside, there’s the soft hum of cars going by like the flow of a river, and those improbable wind-chimes.

Jim smiles to himself and stretches in the semi-darkness, wearing nothing but pants and bare silken skin. He pads down to the elevator, and jams the button for the lowest floor. This time of night, without any heating, the basement gets cold enough to give Jim chills; tingling down his spine in little clusters, like jolts of electricity.

The MP isn’t sitting out, of course. Sebastian takes gun-safe _seriously,_ poor dear. The neat little pistol is up in a case on the wall, trigger guard padlocked. Jim presses his palm to the metal mesh, hard enough that it bites in to his skin. He imagines the heat of Sebastian’s hands, lingering on the gun’s grip.

The little pistol doesn’t have the right _feel_ , though. Not for what Jim has in mind. He looks over his collection, lips pursed in the start of a frown. Down at the end of the handguns, there’s a big chunky Beretta 92, sized more to Sebastian’s hands than Jim’s.

It’ll have a satisfying weight to it. Drag his arm down, make his muscles ache to hold it too long.

Jim’s smile creeps over his face, malicious and self-satisfied. _Perfect._ The keys clink softly against each other as Jim opens the case. And the trigger guard. He sits down in Sebastian’s chair, and takes a deep breath. Excitement buzzes along his nerves, but for once – just for _once,_ Jim reminds himself – he’s going to be excruciatingly careful.

Well, not as careful as he could be. But still. Jim slides the empty magazine out, sets it neatly on the table. He racks the slide of the pistol – then again, and again, three times, just to make sure, before he peers down into the workings of the gun. Empty.

Odd how his hands have never forgotten the feel of a gun. Jim turns the Beretta over and over in his hands, feeling the rough grip, the smooth metal. Jim likes the whispers and fear and the _never-getting-dirty_ more than he ever liked guns. But there’s something about this. _Explosions contained in my hands…_

Death. A passionate kiss. Jim lifts the pistol and sights at the bulletproof glass an inch away from his face. _Mostly safe,_ he reminds himself, thumbing the safety open, _there’s definitely no **bullets** in it, at least –_

He pulls the trigger. The firing pin slams down into nothing.

Jim’s reflection stares back at him over the empty barrel. _Good._ He slides the safety back on, leaves the magazine where it is, and heads back upstairs. Without knowing that the weapon’s safe, it’s easy to mistake it for loaded. And hell, even empty, a killing machine is never safe.

Jim smiles to himself in the empty elevator. He should know, after all.

The wooden floors of his flat are streaked with moonlight. He pads silently over them, to the door of the bedroom, where the unforgiving honey-oak gives way to soft plush carpets. In his bed Sebastian grumbles something, sleep making his voice thick. Jim can see Sebastian’s leg twitch beneath the sheets.

He has to fight down a giggle.

 _Oh, dear._ _Sebastian’s going to **hate** me for this._

_But he’s going to **want** me, too._

Jim takes the precaution of setting an armchair up facing the bed before he glides over the carpet to Sebastian’s side. He takes a moment to admire Sebastian; with his scar pressed to the pillows, Sebastian might pass for a handsome man. The harsh lines in his face smooth out while he sleeps, and the moonlight is forgiving; wiping away his imperfections. When Jim lifts the Beretta, the moonlight slides slow and easy down the barrel.

Jim sets the gun to Sebastian’s temple. The cold steel presses against Sebastian’s hair, glimmering silver and gold. Jim doesn’t know if he _sees_ or _feels_ Sebastian go tense. It doesn’t happen all at once, but with a jerk and a wave; first the shock of awakening, and then frozen horror dousing him temple to toenails.

“ _Time to get up!_ ” Jim sings, a little too late to actually _wake_ Sebastian.

Sebastian is absolutely frozen still. His blue eyes, jolted open, flick to Jim; the pupils expanded with adrenaline. Fear.

Or maybe lust. Jim never really learned to _get_ the difference, and with Sebastian, maybe there _isn’t_ one.

Moonlight slides along the Beretta, down to Sebastian’s skull.

“Jim,” Sebastian breathes, lips barely moving, his tone placating. “Whatever I did… whatever you think I…”

“Shhhh,” Jim croons to him. The gun drags down Sebastian’s temple to his jaw, and pushes it upwards. There’s a dizzying rush of _power_ , surging straight to Jim’s brain. “Shhh.” He can see Sebastian’s throat work as he swallows, _hard._ “Do you know what I was thinking, when I saw you earlier?”

Sebastian shakes his head mutely. Jim can see the pulse jump in his throat.

“Your _hands,_ ” Jim sighs. “They were beautiful. So talented. And…” the gun traces a smooth path down Sebastian’s throat, towards his collarbone. Under the sheets, he’s not wearing anything; Jim knows from experience, Sebastian doesn’t bother with pants in bed. “I was thinking about _this._ It’s _power,_ isn’t it? Death in my hands.”

Sebastian looks as though he doesn’t even dare to breathe. He quivers, like a deer in headlights, like a rabbit in a trap. Terrified. Jim can see his eyes flick nervously around the room, seeking escape, and finding nothing. And then… _there_ it is. A brief flicker as Sebastian focuses back on Jim. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and he takes a slow shuddering breath as he stares down the barrel of the gun.

_Oh, pet. Fear and fascination. You’re going to get yourself in trouble, you know._

“And it’s always been _power_ that fascinated you about me,” Jim continues, tone deceptively light, “Hasn’t it? From the first time you saw me break the rules. This isn’t any different, Sebastian, dear. Can’t you feel it?” Jim can practically see the flow of adrenaline down Sebastian’s bloodstream, the spark and ignition of heat in his gut. Jim steps back, allowing Sebastian just enough space to breathe. He’s not disappointed. Sebastian shifts under the blankets, as if to follow, as if his body yearns after Jim. “Ah-h-…” Jim breathes out, slowly. The gun never wavers. “Stay where you are…”

Finally, Sebastian finds his voice. He has to wet his lips again, but he manages roughly, “That’s a fucking _gun,_ Jim, this isn’t _funny._ ”

“You’d think I’d notice, if I was laughing about it,” Jim jeers back. “I’m not putting the gun down, Sebastian. You don’t want me to.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow, calculating; seeking the balance of power between them. Jim feels almost breathless, his control like silk thread binding Sebastian to the bed. The slightest wrong move and it’ll snap. Sebastian takes a shallow breath, his eyes following the gun like a snake with a hypnotist. Jim takes a silent step back from the bed and circles it; Sebastian watching warily.

“This is insane.” Sebastian sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself. His thigh lifts up, under the sheets, protective. Jim smiles: a sweet smile, innocent and sincere and open, his very-best good-boy smile. Sebastian blinks, taken aback. Jim sits in the chair, in front of the bed. He lets the muzzle of the gun tilt upwards to the ceiling and lounges back, spreading his legs obscenely wide. Sebastian pushes up on his elbows to watch.

That’s when Jim knows he’s won. “Stay on the bed,” he commands softly. “And don’t touch yourself.”

Sebastian is silent. Jim takes that for obedience.

Jim trails his fingers up the inside of his thigh. The gun he lets hang loosely in his hand, forgotten for the moment. He can feel Sebastian’s gaze like a physical thing, avid and devouring, and knows Sebastian is his entire. The warm pads of his fingers continue upwards – over his stomach, to his chest, drawing attention. Almost enough that Sebastian will forget the hand with the gun.

Until Jim raises it to rub against his cheek. Sebastian exhales in a soft rush, like he’s been punched in the gut. Jim lets the smooth flat planes of the Beretta slide down his jaw, drawing it out like a caress against his skin. To his lips. A pause, there - theatrical, the furthest fucking thing from subtle - but Sebastian isn’t exactly a subtle audience.

The tip of Jim’s tongue flicks out and catches the edge of the muzzle.

The bed rustles and creaks under Sebastian’s weight.

“Stay,” Jim reminds Sebastian lightly, not opening his eyes. His tongue flicks out again, up the cold metal of the gun to the tip. He has to drop his mouth open, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to let the gun press just a bit forward. The next salve of his tongue, up the other side, is pushed flat. The gun slips just between Jim’s lips, his mouth hollowed out in a perfect O around it. Sebastian’s exhale this time is so heavy it counts as a moan. Jim can picture him on the bed from the sounds he makes; knows Sebastian has to shift to take the pressure off himself, from the whisper of the sheets.

There’s heat building in Jim’s stomach, too, and a pressing emptiness between his legs. A need. His cock twitches, starting to swell. Jim moans, a feather-light whisper. Oh, sure what he’s doing is campy. It’s overdone. But it’s also Sebastian’s watching as Jim fellates a gun, and getting _hard_ to it –

The thought alone would make Jim hot. Without the dangerous thrill of the gun in his hand. The gun in his _mouth._ There’s a slick noise, as the metal slides over Jim’s purposefully wet lips. Then it slips out again, Jim sucking his way off the barrel with an obscene _pop_. Sebastian groans. Jim doesn’t bother tell him to stay. If he can’t figure that out now… well, he deserves what’s coming to him.

The muzzle of the gun leaves a wet line down Jim’s torso, to his boxers. He doesn’t open his eyes until it’s pressed to the head of his cock. Jim’s hips rock upwards, rubbing himself against the gun. He has to bite back his own moans, now.

Sebastian is on his knees on the bed, naked, his cock rock hard and rigid against his stomach. Jim shuts his eyes and exhales slowly, trying to gather back control. Sebastian growls in answer – low and bestial and dangerous.

Jim opens his eyes. “ _Lube,_ ” he tells Sebastian, curtly, “Bedside table.”

Sebastian barely manages to drag his eyes away long enough to fetch it. Jim uses the opportunity to strip himself the rest of the way naked, throwing his clothes in the vague direction of a laundry bin. When Sebastian has the lube, Jim raises the gun again.

He uses it to gesture Sebastian downwards. “On your knees.”

Jim will never get tired of the look of Sebastian like this; strong muscles tense, quivering, caught somewhere between fear and the desperate need to rebel and _take_ Jim. He slides off the bed and falls heavily to his knees between Jim’s legs, looking up with his eyes dark and lost. He looks like he’s praying. And if that makes Jim God, well –

“Please,” Sebastian spits like a curse at Jim’s feet. He holds out the lube, but Jim shakes his head. Sebastian licks his lips. He glares up at Jim in something like defiance, hair washed white in the moonlight, the hollows of his collarbones picked out in deep shadow.

“Oh no,” Jim breathes. He sets the Beretta back at Sebastian’s temple – enjoying the flinch it draws out – and leans forward to stroke Sebastian’s hair. The touch of Sebastian’s skin on his is electric, and Jim feels hot wet pre-cum pulse on the end of his cock. “No, dear. It’s not for me.”

Sebastian exhales slowly, knowing what Jim means. Jim wonders if he fears it, or wants it, or if there’s any difference between the two. Sebastian turns his head into Jim’s touch, away from the gun. The lube hangs loosely in his fingers, and he makes no move to use it.

 _No. **No.** _ They’re too close now, and the smell of Sebastian’s skin and arousal is so thick on the air Jim can taste the salt of him just by breathing. His caress in Sebastian’s hair becomes a fist. He yanks Sebastian’s head back.

“Just for that,” Jim snarls, so close to Sebastian’s lips it might as well count as kissing, “You’re going to suck me off while you get yourself ready. Better be _fast_ , dear. If I come I might be tempted to leave you here like this – “

He pushes the gun hard into Sebastian’s temple. The words might come off as control but Jim knows the truth; it’s slipping from him, first tablespoons at a time then quick as water over Niagara falls. He needs Sebastian now. Needs him panting and desperate and clutching at Jim. Needs him begging. Or thoughtless. Or –

He needs Sebastian, so hard it’s an ache under his skin, so hot and deep he feels like he might burn up completely with it. If Sebastian doesn’t obey –

If he doesn’t give in to them –

But Jim should know better. Sebastian shifts closer. There’s a snap as he uncaps the lube, then the slick sound of it coating his fingers. Sebastian rises up on his knees, getting a hand behind himself at an awkward angle – but it’ll do.

And his other hand wraps around Jim’s cock.

Jim tumbles back in the chair, sprawling out. He barely remembers to keep the gun at Sebastian’s head. The last thing he sees before he tosses his head back and shuts his eyes is Sebastian; blue eyes dark and glittering in the moonlight; lips red, stretched wetly around Jim’s cock; the gun at his head, shining a silver-death threat.

And then there’s only sensation. Only sound. Sebastian’s mouth closes over Jim, so hot and tight it’s all Jim can do not to thrust upwards. He moans, his fist tightening in Sebastian’s hair, and fights the urge to make wanton, obscene noises so loud they wake the dead. Sebastian’s tongue flicks and twists around him, clever and slick, as his mouth bobs up and down on Jim’s shaft. Jim can feel the head of his cock hit the back of Sebastian’s throat on every down stroke, and it feels like he’s grabbed onto a supernova. His palms are hot. His skin feels over-smooth, as if his body is all slipping downwards into Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian moans, losing focus on what he’s doing. Jim opens his eyes. Sebastian’s face is slack. He works his way sloppily back down Jim’s shaft, his tongue jerking as if he’s forgotten how to move it properly.

Jim can hear the wet sound of Sebastian’s fingers, working in and out of his ass.

“ _That’s enough,_ ” Jim hisses. He throws the gun off to the side and grabs at Sebastian; clutching at his hair, his arms, his shoulders, pulling him desperately upwards. Sebastian is a mess of skin and sweat, precum and saliva. He slips through Jim’s grip, clumsy and slow, but somehow between the two of them he’s hauled into Jim’s lap. He settles, straddling Jim, and braces his hands on the back of the chair. Jim wraps a tight ring of fingers around the base of his cock.

His head presses at Sebastian’s entrance, and Jim rocks his hips upwards into the heat of Sebastian’s body. Sebastian moans, nearly directly into Jim’s ear. His head drops between his shoulders and he bears down, thrusting himself back to meet Jim’s motion. He looks mindless and desperate and utterly debauched, a glistening drop of precum caught on his lips. Jim swipes it away with his thumb and gathers Sebastian into him.

“My soldier,” he whispers, into Sebastian’s hair, pushing up into Sebastian’s body by inches. “My pet.” Sebastian makes a noise Jim’s sure will embarrass him in the morning: a greedy whine.

The next thrust leaves Sebastian sitting flat in Jim’s lap, Jim’s cock buried in him so deep the vivid heat of it is like Greek fire through Jim’s conscious mind. He loses the point of this – power, dominance? – loses everything. His hands find Sebastian’s hips and he grips hard, fingernails digging recklessly in, trying to push and pull Sebastian into riding him.

“ _Now – “_ Jim growls, and Sebastian apparently agrees because he’s pushing himself back off the chair, leaning backwards, arcing himself into a long draw out line over Jim. His thighs flex, his hips, the muscles strong even though they’re twitching in frantic pleasure. Sebastian ruts himself against Jim, grinding himself back and forth on Jim’s cock in quick jerking motions like he’s trying to milk the come out of Jim.

Jim moans; something needy and nonsensical. He tries to push back into Sebastian’s thrusts, rocking his hips up to meet the backwards motion of Sebastian’s body, but there isn’t a good angle for it. Jim growls in frustration, and starts to sit up – needing to _fuck_ Sebastian, needing to _claim_ him.

Sebastian’s hand presses at Jim’s chest, so large it nearly covers it. Sebastian looks down at Jim, face entirely in shadow, backlit by the moon. “No,” he moans, “Oh, _fuck_ , Jim, _please_ – “

He’s utterly helpless and it’s like someone kindled a furnace in Jim’s stomach. All of a sudden the climax he couldn’t stretch towards before builds like a wave under his skin. Jim reaches forward, for Sebastian’s cock and finds Sebastian’s hand already desperately stroking there. He wraps his fist around Sebastian’s, crushing it tighter, and Sebastian cries out like a broken thing. Jim can feel the pulse of orgasm build in his balls. He can feel the tightness of Sebastian’s body, the clench of every single muscle as Sebastian throws himself, reckless, after his own orgasm.

Completely undone. Completely vulnerable. And completely Jim’s.

When he comes Sebastian slams himself as hard as he can backwards, and tenses in a way Jim knows is entirely intentional, so the tight slide of his body on Jim’s cock is a pleasure so intense it tips on the border of falling in to pain. Jim cries out, and comes halfway through reaching up to draw Seb down for a kiss.

He barely feels himself pant Sebastian’s name, barely feels the way his breath puffs over Sebastian’s lips.

\---------

Afterwards, when they’re clean and quiet back in bed together, Jim watches the sun rise through the curtains and worms himself tighter back into Sebastian’s chest.

“I like the guns,” Sebastian rumbles softly, his arm tossed over Jim as if to keep him there. “But I’m not sure if I like them _that_ much.”

“I’ll keep it in mind when I send you on jobs,” Jim yawns. Before Jim says it, he’s not sure if he’s made a decision; but the words tumble out of his lips, and Jim knows it’s done.

“You’re sending me on jobs?” Sebastian asks tentatively, hiding his excitement so he doesn’t spoil the mood.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Jim agrees sleepily. He wriggles his ass against Sebastian’s cock, knowing it’ll be over-sensitive and sore, and is rewarded with a groan. “Now go to sleep, or pretend really hard, so you don’t keep _me_ up.”

Sebastian mutters something about _psychopaths_ and _selfishness._ Jim, with great dignity, hears nothing.

\---------

In the end, Sebastian’s first job nearly kills them both.

It’s a simple enough exercise; a kind of field-test for Sebastian. There’s a hostage, an exchange, a fair bit of money ear-marked for the empire; the standard bit. This time Jim has half a mind to buy a baseball team with the ransom, just because he’s always wondered what the _fuss_ was about. He’s not exactly counting his chickens before they’ve hatched, because it’s all so pristinely textbook. The hostage has been beaten (but not severely enough to cause doubts about _survival)_ the relatives are properly cowed, and now all that’s left is a little hand-over.

Of course, Jim is planning to have Sebastian shoot them all in the end, because they were three hours late calling Jim back and Jim takes punctuality a bit more seriously than most people; but that’s beside the point. As far as anyone knows, it’s all set to go down smooth. The exchange itself is set to take place in one of Jim’s warehouses: not a _regular_ location, he’s not stupid enough to have those, but one of those interchangeable backdrops that give a suitable atmosphere to executions. Jim and his team come in the back-door, just a little bit early, dragging the black-bagged prisoner between them.

Six men, all dressed in black woolen fatigues, and then Jim. In his pristine suit. Appearances, and all that…

“Some days I’m reminded how little has changed,” Sebastian murmurs to Jim from his right side. Even dressed the same as the other men, he stands out: his height, the scars, the pale white of his hair. Jim doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or proud that his house-pet is such an attention grabber. It’s going to make blending into crowds _impossible._

“Extortion’s the same business as always?” Jim pulls out his phone as he talks, so he can walk and text at the same time, finalizing details. Sebastian’s nearly convinced Jim’s capable of echolocation, with the amount that he avoids looking where he’s going. Jim, personally, despairs of ever teaching Sebastian to _multitask._

“Mmm. Well, the money involved has changed a bit…” He pitches his voice low so the other men can’t hear. A few of the sharper ones have started to wonder where Jim picked him up, and Sebastian’s desperately trying to avoid making them any more suspicious. Jim doesn’t deign to play along. Let them be suspicious, if they like. It’s not like they’re a threat.

So when Jim sighs, “Don’t start, _grandpa,_ ” he doesn’t bother to whisper.

“Kinky,” Sebastian quips back in an undertone, without missing a beat, “Call me that more often.”

Jim has to giggle. He tucks his phone away into a pocket of his suit, and checks his watch – rule one of looking like a professional. Never check the time on your phone. Always on your watch.

It’s 6:47 PM, with the exchange set for seven. The sun should be just setting outside when they clear the handover, _beautiful_.

“You’re clear on what you have to do?” Jim asks Sebastian, not for the first time. He doesn’t bother with the others. They know what to do.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Yes, _Mom._ ”

Jim considers sniping back _kinky,_ discards the repetition as too obvious and settles on, “Don’t take any candy from strangers while you’re at it.” He whirls, grabs Sebastian’s chin, and pulls him down into a quick and filthy kiss. If there are murmurs from his men, Jim ignores them. “If you’re a good dog, I’ll throw you a treat afterwards,” he promises against Sebastian’s lips, when he pulls back from the kiss.

A normal person might say, _you’re ready for this,_ might say, _be careful,_ but Jim doesn’t need to. Of course Sebastian will be perfect. There isn’t anything else he could be.

“Looking forward to it,” Sebastian replies, just as quiet.

The black-bagged prisoner makes a series of retching noises, and one of Jim’s men helpfully kicks him between the legs. Apart from a series of tortured moans, that seems to make everything quiet again. The warehouse echoes, the clanking noise of metal settling overloud in the quiet. 6:53. Jim gives Sebastian’s jaw one last squeeze, and lets go. He turns slowly on his heel to survey the other black clad men, nods to them, and walks away without another word. His shoes make neat, crisp sounds on the concrete. Behind him, his men start to drag the prisoner into place in the center of the floor. Sebastian is just one lackey among many, now. Jim shuts his presence out as much as possible, and finds a vantage point on the second floor. The warehouse is low enough that he’ll be able to hop down to the hostage, when money arrives.

Jim finds a place by the window. It’s 6:58 PM. The sun is starting to set.

Everything is quiet.

\---------

7:05. There’s a car outside, and not nearly soon enough; Jim’s whole body is a mess of nerves. He can’t remember the last time anyone was late for an exchange. Jim watches the car park. Two figures get out; the wife, he recognizes. The other figure, a burly man, he doesn’t. The man carries the briefcase ransom, shoulders hunched under his long jacket. When the two figures cross the parking lot towards the warehouse, the man’s sleeves ride up. Jim’s sharp eyes pick out the tattoos that stop precisely at the wrist; tattoos designed to be hidden in court.

Jim chews the tip of his tongue thoughtfully, and glances over his shoulder at the warehouse floor.

Sebastian stands as part of a small half-circle of men, around the hostage in the center of the warehouse floor. Jim will stand directly beside the hostage, of course, all the better to dramatically whip off the black bag and reveal – safe and mostly sound – the missing loved one.

Sebastian’s the only man of Jim’s escort that’s armed; they were supposed to be _entirely_ unarmed, according to terms of agreement, but Jim doesn’t believe in chances. Sebastian’s guns are concealed, but only from a cursory inspection; at second glance, the holsters are obvious. But then, Jim wanted a quick draw more than stealth when he decided on the clothing. It is important, after all, that even if shit goes _entirely_ south, Sebastian come out breathing.

Jim takes a shallow breath, looks back at the approaching family member as she and her escort close the distance across the tarmac. The man is hired muscle, that’s obvious enough; Jim doesn’t doubt he’s here to secure the hostage without handing over the precious briefcase. The only unknown for Jim is the _quality_ of muscle little Mrs. Housewife has managed to hire. The thug is big enough that he should move slow, only he doesn’t seem to; there’s a liquid grace to his motions that says _martial arts,_ or _ballet_ , Jim’s never quite sure which.

Jim is startled by the sudden taste of blood in his mouth. He’s bitten through his tongue while thinking, _again._ Jim makes a face. He shakes a napkin out of his pocket and spits the unattached tip into it, along with a mouthful of blood – careful not to let anything drip.

The woman and her hired muscle reach the doors of the warehouse, and bang on them three times, then two, then one, then three, then three again. Jim can’t help a grin. He’s going to set the _next_ ransom up with an even _more_ stupid and ridiculous knock pattern.

_Who else do they think is going to be in an abandoned dockyard warehouse, and open the door for them? Really, now._

Jim gives the parking lot one last scan for other cars or possible back-up, but there’s nothing there. He swings himself down from the second floor onto a cross-beam and drops neatly to the concrete, straightening his suit. “Alright then, boys and girls,” he says to the room at large, “ _Showtime._ ”

\---------

7:07 PM. The man in the long coat pulls an extraordinarily large and astonishingly nasty machine gun from beneath his coat. It’s fed from a belt wrapped around his chest. Jim has time to feel his eyes go wide, and then Sebastian grabs him, and he’s flying through the air to the side.

\---------

7:08 PM. Jim may not be getting a baseball team, after all.

\---------

7:13 PM. The machine gun whizzes to a halt. Jim props himself up on his elbows and chokes white concrete dust out of his lungs. The back wall of the warehouse is _pulverized._ Jim hisses angrily through his teeth, and twists his neck to the side so sharply his spine cracks. _Sebastian’s in there somewhere – the **idiot** – _Jim looks for a shock of white-blonde hair, even the lean predatory movements of Sebastian’s body in shadow, but he can’t seem more than a foot from his face. Thick clouds of mortar and what must once have been brick billow in the air. Something tells Jim that the only reason he’s alive and not hamburger is because recoil kicks _upwards_ , and Jim landed flat on his face in the dirt.

 _Massive miscalculation,_ Jim thinks, scowling. There’s a ringing silence in his ears that he knows is just the aftermath of a whole lot of gunfire in a really small space. The dust is beginning to settle, a thin layer coating the corpses on the ground. Jim fights back another cough – never know who might be listening in –

There’s an odd glow at the end of the warehouse. Like an electric light, only this place hasn’t had power in years.

Jim crawls his way into the shadows. The dust settles down, ashes like snow around them.

It’s the hair, of course. It’s always the fucking hair. So pale that under the dust it loses colour completely, going grey. Jim feels an absurd pleasure in the fact that Sebastian is going to be a silver fox.

Then he recognizes the light sparking from Sebastian’s fingertips as he reaches for the woman. Can’t leave witnesses, after all. The big man is already gone, machine-gun still glowing hotly on the concrete at Sebastian’s feet. Sebastian’s face is twisted into a rictus of anger as his fingers dig painfully into the woman’s face.

Jim can’t hear what Sebastian’s saying over the ringing of his eardrums, but he can read lips just fine.

_If he’s dead – I’ll fucking find you, I swear, if you hurt a **hair** on his head – _

The woman disappears in an electric snap. Sebastian sways on his feet, like hating her was keeping him upright, like he’ll fall if he doesn’t have someone to hurt.

Jim still can’t hear. Fuck it. “ _Sebastian,_ ” he shouts. It’s utterly soundless to him.

But Sebastian turns, and Jim sees relief cut all the tension out of Sebastian’s face, like marionette strings.

\---------

7:15 PM. Sebastian’s arms around Jim are crushing tight. The first sound Jim hears when the ringing dies down is Sebastian’s voice, repeating, “I should have been faster,” into Jim’s hair.

\---------

Jim sits down beside Sebastian on the concrete barrier. He folds his arms over the chain link fence, and looks out to sea. Sebastian leans on the iron pole beside them, and is silent. The concrete is still warm from the setting sun. The waves are steel-gray, dark and choppy, frothy whitecaps showing as they crest. They hit the barrier beneath Jim and Sebastian in perfect, unending rhythm. Out at sea, a tanker drifts by; inconceivably massive and utterly uninterested in them, like some ponderous leviathan. Behind them, the cleaning crews are at work.

“I wasn’t fast enough to protect you,” Sebastian says finally. “If I had gotten a gun up in time – “

“I’m not hurt,” Jim reminds him. “Besides. I should have seen what he was hiding…”

“It’s just that things are so different,” Sebastian continues, as if Jim hadn’t spoken.

“Some of it,” Jim agrees. Internally he’s screaming at Sebastian to say ‘it doesn’t matter.’ Sebastian says nothing. His blue eyes watch the darkening sea. On the horizon, there’s a haze of clouds painted purple by the sunset.

“It’s different,” Sebastian repeats. He bites his lip. “Everything moves faster than I remember. It’s louder. I thought I could be useful…”

“You are useful.” There’s only damning silence in response. Jim inhales slowly, and lets it out. “You could leave if that’s what you want,” he says finally. “I can Send you back. To your home. Wherever you want to go.” He looks down at his hands, feels the swell of panic start to writhe in his chest.

Sebastian looks at Jim like he’s grown a second head. “But I’d have to go without you.” As if that answers everything, Sebastian sways to the side, bumping his shoulder against Jim’s. “Don’t _mope._ ”

Jim twists to scowl at him. “I’m not _moping,_ ” he snarls. “I could Send you to the center of a _sun,_ too, you know.”

Sebastian just grins, wide and wolfish and entirely unconcerned by the threat. “You wouldn’t,” he tells Jim. Jim hisses at him, and Sebastian - finally - laughs. “Learning to deal with this crap – It’s the same as what you meant to do for me, isn’t it? When you came back. Before you knew you could even become Aberrant. You would have lived in the fairy tales for me. How can I do any less for you?” Sebastian shrugs. “I don’t care about my own world. I just want to get good enough for this one, that’s all. Even a King of Shadows can’t rule alone.” Sebastian’s smile at Jim softens. He raises his hand. His fingertips are glowing. “We’re stuck with each other now,” he says quietly, so no one else can hear.

Jim looks down to his own fingertips. He wiggles them, and concentrates. The light beneath his nails is fragile and faint, but it gets brighter as he watches.

“Yes,” he tells Sebastian, “I think you may be right.”

 


End file.
